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DORIS’S  FORTUNE 


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7  WEWTY-FOVE  CEfcTS  A  BOTTLE- 


DORIS’S  FORTUNE. 


CHAPTER  I. 


Bear  your  blushing  honors  meekly,  old  fellow.  You 
are  the  hero  of  the  hour.  ” 

“  Let  us  get  away  somewhere  out  of  the  crowd,  away 
from  everybody,”  said  the  other  man  quietly,  but  with 
some  impatience  in  his  particularly  sweet  and  gentle  voice. 

“  Not  so  easy  in  town  on  a  May  afternoon!  Let  us  go  to 
the  park;  and  there,  if  the  sight  of  your  baking  fellow- 
creatures  does  not  tempt  you  to  join  the  solemn  throng, 
well  go  and  hide  ourselves  among  the  trees  and  moralize.^ 
“  The  park!  That  is  just  the  place  to  meet  everybody. 

“  Then  why  not  meet  them  all  at  once  and  get  the  or¬ 
deal  over?  Face  the  congratulations  of  your  defeated  rivals 
like  a  man.  One  would  think  you  were  ashamed  of  your 
victor}'.  ” 

“  So  I  am  rather.”  ,  .,  , 

“  Ashamed  of  carrying  off  the  prettiest,  wittiest,  richest 

girl  in  London,  the  only  good-looking  heiress  that  ever  was 
born,  whom  all  the  penniless  bachelors  I  know  worshiped 
from  afar,  and  all  those  who  were  running  through  their 
own  money  looked  upon  as  the  hoped-for  support  ot  their 

^‘“Thaft^is  just  where  it  is;  it  is  rather  awkward  to  be 
marrying  a  girl  so  much  better  olf  than  one  s  self,  i  i&  no 
as  if  I  had  expectations,  or  any  hope  of  making  money  my¬ 
self  some  day.  I  ought  to  have  been  content  to  worship 

her  from  afar  like  the  rest.” 

“But,  my  dear  fellow,  she  wouldn  t  let  you.  You  are 
unreasonable;  you  let  strained  sentiment  carry  you  too  iar. 
Let  us  get  into  this  hansom  and  argue  the  point. 

They  both  got  into  the  hansom,  and,  as  they  were  slowly 


6 


doris’s  fortuhe. 


driven  in  the  block  of  vehicles  of  all  kinds  along  crowded 
Piccadilly,  the  younger  man  continued  his  argument: 

“  I  look  upon  you  as  the  one  solitary  case  of  merit  re¬ 
warded,  which  restores  my  faith  in  a  discriminating  Provi¬ 
dence.  The  very  first  time  Miss  Edgcombe  saw  you,  two 
months  ago,  on  your  return  from  India,  she  seemed  pleased 
when  some  one  told  her  you  admired  her,  and  she  asked 
me  several  questions  about  you  which  showed  that  she  was 
interested  in  you.  Well,  you  can  guess  that  the  girl  has 
been  used  to  attention  and  admiration  from  every  man  she 
has  met  since  she  left  the  school-room,  and  is  a  pretty 
shrewd  judge  of  the  merits  of  her  admirers.  And  I  never 
thought  so  highly  of  her  judgment  as  I  do  now.  ” 

“  But  then  you  are  the  most  generous-hearted  fellow  in 
the  world.  Why  you  haven’t  married  her  yourself  long 
before  this  is  the  most  perplexing  conundrum  I  ever  ask 
myself.” 

“  I?  Oh,  I  never  asked  her!  We’ve  been  chums — 
Doris  and  I;  and  I  am  her  adviser  and  counselor  in  all 
matters  of  difficulty.  Of  course  I  give  up  my  office  now  to 
you;  but  it  has  been  a  great  thing  for  her  to  have  at  hand 
a  man  on  whose  experience  and  discretion  she  could  rely, 
surrounded  as  she  is  by  a  giddy  crowd  of  idle  flutterers.  ” 

The  young  fellow  said  this  with  all  solemnity;  but  his 
friend  interrupted  him  with  a  laugh. 

“  That’s  rough  on  the  other  flutterers,  Charlie.” 

“  Other  flutterers!  I  assure  you  I  never  flutter  where 
Miss  Edgcombe  is  concerned.  I  am  her  Mentor,  I  tell  you, 
her  pilot  among  the  quicksands  of  a  corrupt  and  venal  so¬ 
ciety;  and,  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  influence  exerted  in 
your  favor,  who  knows  but  she  might  have  bestowed  her 
hand;  not  to  speak  of  her  fortune,  in  quite  a  different 
quarter?” 

Charlie  Papillon  twirled  his  golden  mustache  with  feroc¬ 
ity  as  he  finished  this  menacing  speech;  but  the  other  man 
laughed  again. 

6 4  It  is  lucky  for  me  I  did  not  know  before  that  my  fate 
hung  in  your  uncompromising  hands.  I  should  never 
have  had  the  courage  to  propose.” 

“  But  then  it  is  so  easy  to  propose  to  an  heiress.  It 
seems  the  natural  thing  to  do,  if  one  gets  a  tete-a-tete 
with  her.  She  expects  it,  and  is  so  well  used  to  refusing 
offers  that  she  knows  how  to  dismiss  one  kindly  with  the 


Doris's  fortune. 


7 


least  possible  pain  to  one's  feelings.  I  think  Doris  must 
have  refused  all  the  single  men  she  knows  except  me. " 

“  Why  didn't  you  try?  You  would  have  had  a  better 
chance  than  anybody,  I  should  think." 

‘‘How  could  I?  I  haven't  any  money.  What  could  I 
have  said  to  her?  How  could  I  neatly  disguise  my  willing¬ 
ness  to  share  nine  thousand  a  year  and  expectations  with  a 
pretty  girl?  My  heart  and  two  hundred  a  year  could  have 
no  possible  attraction  for  her." 

“  Take  care — consider  my  feelings.  You  are  putting  my 


own  case. 
66 


Oh,  no,  that  is  quite  a  different  thing!  If  Miss  Edg- 
combe  had  accepted  me  or  any  of  those  other  fellows — flut¬ 
tered,  as  you  call  them — all  the  rest  of  us  would  have 
called  out  in  chorus,  ‘  What  on  earth  cun  she  see  in  him?' 
while  now  we  all  metaphorically  step  back  and  bow  our¬ 
selves  out,  and  make  way  quite  cheerfully  for  ‘  old  Glyn. ' 
It  is  just  the  right  man  and  the  right  woman  for  once,  and 
everybody  acknowledges  it  and  says,  ‘  Bless  you,  my  chil¬ 
dren!'  I  always  felt  myself  that  a  beneficent  Providence 
had  something  nice  in  store  for  both  of  you,  and  Provi¬ 
dence  has  fulfilled  my  highest  hopes  in  giving  you  each 
other." 

Charlie  Papillon  spoke  enthusiastically;  but  he  was 
hardly  overstating  the  case  either  as  regarded  his  own  de¬ 
votion  to  his  two  friends,  or  the  estimation  in  which  they 
were  generally  held.  Miss  Edgcombe  was  an  exceptional 
woman,  not  only  in  the  fact  that  she  was  young,  wealthy, 
and  handsome,  but,  in  having  such  a  well-balanced  mind 
that,  in  spite  of  the  flattery  and  homage  she  had  now  for 
six  or  seven  years  been  accustomed  to  receive,  she  had  lived 
to  the  age  of  twenty-four  with  head  unturned  and,  so  it  was 
said,  heart  untouched.  Even  her  best  friends  could  not  suc¬ 
cessfully  defend  her  from  the  charge  of  coldness;  but,  just 
in  time  to  save  herself  from  the  confirmation  of  this  re¬ 
proach,  she  had  encouraged  the  attentions  and  accepted  the 
hand  of  David  Glyn;  and  friends  and  acquaintances  agreed 
that  she  had  chosen  well. 

David  Glyn  had  passed  the  age  of  thirty  without  realiz¬ 
ing  any  of  the  brilliant  prophecies  his  friends  had  freely 
made  concerning  him  in  his  early  youth.  Perhaps  there 
had  never  been  any  particular  ground  for  believing  that 
these  prophecies  would  be  realized.  The  exact  foundation 


8 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


on  which  the  esteem  in  which  he  was  held  was  built  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  discover.  A  handsome  high- 
spirited  lad,  with  a  generous  disposition  and  sweet  temper, 
he  had  occupied,  even  in  his  Eton  days,  a  high  position 
among  his  companions,  independently  of  his  attainments 
either  in  study  or  in  sport,  which  were  respectable,  but 
not  extraordinary.  A  certain  natural  reserve,  with  which 
neither  haughtiness  nor  sulkiness  had  anything  to  do,  gave 
dignity  to  the  sweetness  of  his  disposition,  and  perhaps  did 
more  to  secure  the  respect  in  which  he  was  held  than  his 
more  undeniable  merits.  The  reputation  of  the  boy  be¬ 
came  that  of  the  man;  he  passed  through  life  making  few 
enemies  and  many  friends,  drifting  from  the  army  to  the 
bar,  from  the  bar  to  a  clerkship  in  a  Calcutta  bank,  from 
the  bank  to  a  Government  office  in  London,  always  steady, 
always  reserved,  always  looked  up  to  as  a  good  man  as  well 
as  a  good  fellow.  His  handsome  figure  and  beautiful  grave 
face  had  always  attracted  a  great  deal  of  attention  from 
women  of  all  ranks  and  ages,  and,  together  with  the  fact 
that  he  rather  avoided  their  society,  had  caused  him  to  be 
much  sought  after  by  them.  The  climax  to  this  wide¬ 
spread  admiration,  of  which  he  had  never  been  in  the  least 
vain,  was  the  interest  he  excited  in  beautiful  Miss  Edg- 
combe,  who  frankly  encouraged  his  attentions,  without  any 
coquetry,  from  the  first  evening  of  his  introduction  to  her 
— when  she  had  been  prepared  to  receive  him  graciously — 
by  Charlie  Papillon,  who  mingled  with  enthusiastic  praises 
of  his  friend  a  glowing  account  of  the  impression  her  beauty 
had  made  upon  him.  After  that,  it  had  been  plain  sailing 
for  Glyn,  and  in  a  few  weeks,  whether  at  his  initiative  or 
hers  neither  quite  knew,  he  had  proposed  and  been  at  once 
accepted. 

The  person  who  rejoiced  the  most  demonstratively  over 
this  happy  consummation  was  Charlie  Papillon,  who  con¬ 
sidered  that  he  was  the  prime  mover  in  the  matter,  and 
took  a  more  than  paternal  interest  in  both  the  young  people. 
He  felt  quite  as  much  excitement  over  their  love-affair  as 
he  did  over  any  of  his  own,  which  were  many  and  varied, 
ranging  from  the  purely  Platonic  through  all  the  de- 
g'rees  of  light-comedy  flirtation,  sentimental  interest, 
serious  attachment,  and  hopeless  passion.  He  was  very 
good  at  all  but  the  last,  from  which,  in  the  course  of  a  fewr 
days,  either  the  hopelessness  or  the  passion  would  invariably 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


9 


drop  out.  Mothers  and  chaperons  feared  him;  but  unat¬ 
tached  old  ladies  and  matrons  without  daughters  to  marry 
petted  and  tried  to  convert  him.  For  Charlie  was  an  infidel 
and  a  heretic  on  many  points  of  social  and  moral  ortho¬ 
doxy,  a  blue-eyed  cynic,  a  golden-haired  philosopher,  “a 
most  dangerous  man,  my  dear,  quite  an  improper  compan¬ 
ion  for  young  people!” 

But  there  was  not  much  harm  in  Charlie,  except  that  his 
desperately  ineligible  caressing  white  hand  and  affectionate 
blue  eyes  would  come  in  the  way  of  most  excellent  matches 
between  pretty  girls  and  men  with  big  red  hands  and  unin¬ 
teresting  faces,  and  fortunes  which  made  poor  Charlie's 
two  hundred  a  year  seem  a  poor  pittance  indeed.  But 
when  marriage  made  a  grip  in  the  circle  of  his  loves,  Papil- 
lon  replaced  the  defaulting  fair  one  by  another,  or  he  en¬ 
tered  the  bride  afresh  on  the  register  of  his  heart  under 
the  heading  “  Platonic,"  and  all  went  on  as  happily  as 
ever.  No  husband  seriously  feared  him,  nor  had  any  hus¬ 
band  serious  reason  to  do  so;  though  perhaps,  had  the  mas¬ 
ter  of  the  house  always  known  what  a  much  more  sponta¬ 
neous  smile  his  wife  had  for  the  sunny-faced  guest  than  for 
his  less  unvaryingly  sweet  self,  he  would  have  wished  that 
young  gentleman  back  at  the  office  where  he  placed  his 
valuable  services,  for  six  placid  hours  each  day,  at  the  dis¬ 
posal  of  an  unexacting  government. 

Papillon  was  not  a  drone,  though  he  rather  encouraged 
the  thought  that  he  was;  he  liked  to  think  that  he  was 
quietly  husbanding  his  strength  to  do  great  things  in  that 
“  some  day  99  which  was  to  bring  him  his  opportunity.  In 
the  meantime  mere  waiting  had  its  consolations,  and  at 
five-and-twenty  he  could  still  afford  to  let  things  slide  for 
awhile.  To  be  able  to  debate  each  afternoon  or  evening 
with  himself  on  which  of  half  a  dozen  pleasant  places  he 
should  shed  the  light  of  his  presence,  with  the  certainty 
that  at  any  one  of  them  he  would  be  warmly  welcomed, 
was  in  itself  a  thing  to  make  life  worth  living.  What  he 
would  be  at  forty  he  did  not  ask  himself,  nor  did  any  one 
else  consider;  at  twenty-five  he  was  a  social  sunbeam, 
which  of  itself  was  not  a  bad  destiny. 

He  had  been  a  small  boy  at  Eton  when  David  Glyn  was 
in  the  sixth  form;  but  they  had  scarcely  met  since  until  the 
return  of  the  latter  from  India,  since  when  the  old  boyhood 
acquaintance  had  become  friendship,  and  Papillon  had 


10 


doris’s  fortune. 


hoisted  his  friend  on  to  a  pinnacle  and  worshiped  him  and 
sung  his  praises  with  great  enthusiasm. 

The  two  men  got  out  of  the  hansom  at  Hyde  Park  Cor¬ 
ner,  and  strolled  through  the  gates  together.  Papillon 
liked  the  people,  Glyn  liked  the  trees.  But  the  philoso¬ 
pher,  the  cynic,  had  an  idea  that  the  influence  of  trees  was 
bad,  unless  you  were  with  a  girl — girls  having  the  power  to 
charm  away  all  noxious  influences  that  ever  threatened  his 
serenity.  So  he  linked  his  arm  in  his  friend’s,  and,  keeping 
the  thoughts  of  the  latter  diverted  by  a  flow  of  bright  chat¬ 
ter,  led  him  into  the  stream  of  well-dressed  men  and 
variously  dressed  women  that  throng  the  park  in  the  sea¬ 
son.  They  had  got  to  the  end  of  the  path  where  the  crowd 
was  thinnest,  when  a  gentleman  whose  dress  proclaimed 
that  he  was  not  a  Londoner  came  up  to  Glyn  and  greeted 
him  very  warmly. 

“  I  found  out  your  address,  and  was  coming  to  call  upon 
you  this  afternoon,”  said  he.  “I  met  Barrett  last  night, 
and  he  told  me  you  had  come  back  from  India  and  were 
going  to  be  married.  So,  as  I  am  going  back  to  Yorkshire 
in  a  day  or  two,  I  thought  I  must  find  you  out  and  give 
you  my  good  wishes  first.  I  vyish  you  joy,  Glyn!” 

“  You  know  who  the  lady  is?” 

“  Oh,  I  can  guess,  of  course!  It  can  be  only  the  one.” 

“  Which  one?”  asked  Glyn,  in  surprise. 

“  Why,  Mrs.  Hodson,  of  course!  I  didn’t  even  know  her 
husband  was  dead;  but  I  know  you  are  not  the  sort  to 
change,  and,  as  soon  as  I  heard  you  were  going  to  be  mar¬ 
ried,  I  guessed  who  the  lady  was,”  said  he,  mysteriously. 

“  You  are  wrong,  though,”  said  David,  laughing. 
“  Mr.  Hodson  is  alive  and  in  very  good  health;  and,  even 
if  Mrs.  Hodson  were  a  widow  and  willing  to  have  me,  which 
is  supposing  a  good  deal,  I  don’t  think  I  could  quite  recon¬ 
cile  myself  to  becoming  the  property  of  a  lady  so  much 
older  than  myself.  Why,  in  a  year  or  two  I  might  have 
proposed  myself  as  a  son-in-law!” 

“  Oh,  well,  I  beg  your  pardon!”  said  the  country  gentle¬ 
man,  rather  disconcerted.  “  Of  course  I  didn’t  know. 
When  I  knew  you  there  at  Richmond  two  years  ago,  you 
seemed  to  be  always  at  the  house,  and  people  talked,  and, 
until  young  Taunton  turned  up  there,  you  seemed  to  be 
generally  about,  and —  But,  oh,  I  beg  your  pardon !  Er — 
who  is  the  lady,  then?” 


DORIS'S  FORTUNE, 


11 


u  Miss  Edgcome,  of  Amblesicle.  I  wish  you  were  going 
to  stay  in  town;  I  should  like  to  introduce  you  to  her.  She 
is  a  great  deal  younger  and  handsomer  than  the  impossible 
bride  you  wanted  to  give  me.  '' 

rTm  very  glad  to  hear  it,”  said  the  other  man  ener¬ 
getically.  “  Then  I  can  congratulate  you  with  a  free  con¬ 
science.  99 

And,  after  a  few  more  remarks,  showing  more  kindliness 
than  tact,  he  went  on  his  way  and  left  the  young  men  to¬ 
gether. 

Charlie  Papillon  did  not  as  usual  break  out  at  once  into 
cheerful  prattle,  but  waited  for  his  friend  to  speak  first. 

“  Good  fellow  that— 99 

“  In  spite  of  the  cut  of  his  coat.  Where  did  you  pick 
him  up?” 

“  I  used  to  meet  him  very  often  at  Richmond  before  I 
went  to  India,  at  the  Hodsons'.  You  know  Hodson,  the 
stock-broker,  don't  you?” 

“  Yes.  Gives  very  good  dinners  and  rides  very  good 
horses,  and —  Do  you  like  him?” 

“  Not  particularly;  but  he  has  a  very  nice  wife.  I  think 
people  go  more  to  the  Lawns  for  the  sake  of  his  wines  and 
his  wife  than  because  they  find  any  great  attraction  in  Hod- 
son  himself.  '' 

Charlie  glanced  at  his  friend's  calm  face,  but  there  was 
no  change  in  its  somewhat  languid  expression;  it  was  clear 
that  the  indifference  in  his  voice  was  not  assumed. 

“  Yes.  Hodson 's  stolid  enjoyment  of  his  own  dinners  is 
amusing  at  first;  but  it  is  a  diversion  which  palls  in  course 
of  time.  I'm  rather  fond  of  Mrs.  Hodson;  she  is  the  pleas¬ 
antest  specimen  of  the  mature  coquette  I  know.'' 

“  That  is  rather  severe,  Charlie.  She  is  an  awfully  kind- 
hearted  woman,  and  I  never  saw  any  coquetry  about  her. 
She  speaks  of  herself  in  the  frankest  manner  as  an  old 
married  woman  still  young  enough  to  enjoy  the  world. 99 

“  Oh,  I  don't  say  anything  against  her  manner;  and  she 
is  a  charming  woman,  I  admit  at  once!” 

“  I  think  so,  too.  A  little  unrefined,  perhaps,  but  so 
genial,  so — so  jolly!  Then  she  is  so  ready  to  show  kindness 
to  any  one  who  feels  rather  stranded,  as  it  were,  and  badly 
off  for  relaxation  or  pleasure.  For  some  time  before  I 
went  to  India,  I  got  most  of  the  enjoyment  I  had  in  life  at 
the  Lawns.  Instead  of  giving  me  a  stiff  invitation  now 


Boris's  fortune. 


and  then,  and  showing  me  that  I  was  de  irop  if  I  made  my 
appearance  unexpectedly,  she  absolutely  encouraged  me  to 
come  when  I  liked,  and  stay  as  long  as  I  liked,  and  do  just 
as  I  liked.  There  is  a  sort  of  easy-goingness  about  the 
whole  household,  without  any  stiffness  or  any  want  of 
order,  that  makes  it  quite  the  pleasantest  I  ever  was  in 
in  England." 

“  I  wonder  whether  it  is  quite  as  easy-going  for  those 
two  little  girls.  " 

“  Nellie  and  Ethel?  One  sees  so  little  of  them;  they  are 
always  in  the  school-room.  Yet  even  they  add  to  the  charm 
of  the  place.  They  have  such  prim,  demure,  pretty  little 
manners,  when  one  does  see  them,  and  have  such  a  quaint, 
old-fashioned  look,  one  wonders  what  they  will  grow  up 
into.  By  the  bye,  they  were  looking  rather  tall  for  their 
short  frocks  when  I  went  away;  I  suppose  they  must  be  al¬ 
most  grown  up  by  this  timer" 

“  Oh,  no,  they  won't  grow  up  for  a  long  time  yet!"  said 
Charlie,  dryly.  “  Pretty  women's  daughters  develop  very 
slowly. " 

“  They  ought  not  to  have  to  delay  much  on  that  ac¬ 
count,*'  said  Glyn,  laughingly.  “I  don't  consider  their 
mother  such  a  very  pretty  woman.  If  you  catch  her  un¬ 
prepared — and  she  doesn't  seem  to  mind  being  caught — she 
really  isn't  pretty  at  all." 

“  Now,  I  don't  agree  with  you.  I  think  her  very  pretty, 
especially  in  evening-dress." 

“But  her  taste  in  dress  is  atrocious;  she  likes  barbaric 

colors. " 

“  Yes;  but  they  don't  look  so  ill  on  her  as  they  would  on 
another  woman.  And  there  are  gleams  of  a  better  nature 
in  her  fondness  for  old  lace  and  Indian  muslin.  A  woman 
who  can  alford  to  tone  herself  down  with  old  point  and  dia¬ 
monds  may  pass  muster  as  well  dressed,  however^far  astray 
her  individual  freaks  of  taste  may  sometimes  carry  her. " 

“A  very  good  defense,  Charlie,"  said  Glyn,  laughing 
again.  “  However,  one  forgave  her  bad  taste  for  the  sake 
of  her  good  nature." 

“  I  believe  she  is  awfully  good-natured  to  young  people  at 
a  loss  to  what  to  do  with  their  time — or  their  money.  I 
know  two  or  three  fellows  she  has  been  a  mother  to. " 

“  You  let  your  cynical  tongue  carry  you  too  far,  Charlie. 


BORISES  EORtUKE. 


13 


But  I  don't  suppose  you  can  understand  such  a  thing  as 
friendship  with  any  woman  without  flirtation-” 

“  Well,  we  won't  discuss  it,  because,  to  begin  with,  we 
should  not  define  flirtation  in  the  same  way.  Did  you  ever 
meet  young  Taunton  at  the  Lawns?' 

“The  young  fellow  whose  losses  on  the  Derby  made 
such  a  sensation  last  year?  Yes;  he  was  a  client  of  Hod- 
son's.  I  didn't  care  much  about  him,  and  when  he  began 
to  come  I  left  off  going  there  so  much." 

“  Ah,  he  was  very  well  off  then!  He  was  a  great  favor¬ 
ite  of  Mrs.  Ilodsons,  wasn't  he?  He's  just  been  through 
the  Bankruptcy  Court.” 

“  Don't  be  unfair,  Charlie.  You  can't  say  she  was  kind 
to  me  because  I  was  well  off. '' 

“  Well,  you  had  your  beaux  yeux .  And  you  admit  you 
were  not  so  often  at  the  Lawns  after  Taunton's  appearance 
there." 

“  But  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  Mrs.  Hodson.  It  was 
only  a  few  weeks  before  I  left  England,  and  I  had  a  great 
deal  to  do  and  had  not  so  much  time  on  my  hands  as  be¬ 
fore.  The  hospitality  at  the  Lawns  was  as  open  as  ever. " 

“  Have  you  seen  anything  of  the  Hodsons  since  your  re¬ 
turn?” 

“  Yes;  I  met  Hodson  in  the  Strand  the  other  day,  and  he 
asked  me  down  to  dance,  and  I  went.  It  was  the  seven¬ 
teenth  of  last  month,  I  think.  ” 

“  Oh,  he  asked  me  to  do  that;  but  I  had  another  engage¬ 
ment!  Wliat  sort  of  affair  was  it:" 

“  The  old  style  there — not  too  many  people,  rooms  cool, 
capital  supper.  Madame  was  as  charming  as  ever;  but  I 
scarcely  spoke  to  her.  Missed  my  two  prim  little  friends, 
Nellie  and  Ethel — gone  to  school.  ” 

“  Was  Miss  Edgcombe  there?" 

“No;  it  was  before  I  even  dared  to  hope  I  had  an  out¬ 
side  chance  with  her.  ” 

“  Why,  I  knew  how  things  were  going  even  then!  Doris 
is  above  encouraging  a  man  for  her  own  amusement." 

“You  have  known  her  longer  than  I,  you  see.  Besides, 
her  striking  beauty,  and  her  brilliant  manner  fairly  dazzled 
me;  I  can't  express  the  effect  she  had  on  me  in  any  other 
way.  So  that  I  had  neither  judgment  nor  power  of  criti¬ 
cism  where  she  was  concerned." 

“  I  can  understand  that.  If  she  were  not  generally  a 


14 


DOUIS  S  FOETUNF. 


iittle  cold,  we  should  all  be  off  our  heads  about  her;  when 
she  wishes  to  please  she  is  irresistible.  '' 

“  Cold!  I  should  not  have  called  her  cold.” 

“  No,  you  would  not,  of  course!  She  isn't  cold  to  me 
either.  But  I've  seen  people  she  doesn't  like  shrivel  up  at 
a  look  from  Doris;  and  I  think  if  I  had  done  anything  very 
mean,  I  should  run  the  other  way  if  I  saw  her  coming.  She 
is  a  little  too  good  for  most  people;  I  had  just  begun  to 
think  I  should  have  to  send  up  for  an  archangel  to  marry 
her,  when  luckily  you  stepped  in  and  made  it  all  right.” 

“  Draw  it  mild,  Charlie.  I'm  a  little  in  awe  of  her  al¬ 
ready;  she  seems  to  stand  out  so  far  above  all  the  other 
women  I  have  met.  Her  generosity  almost  appalls  me.  Do 
you  know,  she  absolutely  refuses  to  have  any  of  her  money 
settled  on  herself,  and  insists  that  everything  she  possesses 
shall  be  entirely  under  my  control?” 

“  Ah,  yes!  I  have  often  heard  her  say  she  would  never 
marry  a  man  she  could  not  trust  completely,  and  that  she 
would  not  have  any  mean  money  quarrels.  It  has  been  a 
great  dread  of  hers  that  she  would  be  married  for  what  she 
has,  and  not  for  herself.” 

“  What  singular  modesty  in  such  a  beautiful  girl!” 

“  Yes;  I  like  her  for  it,  though.  ” 

“  One  can't  help  it.  But  1  wish  she  would  have  been 
persuaded  to  keep  her  fortune  in  her  own  hands. .  To  tell  you 
the  truth,  the  responsibility  alarms  my  indolence.” 

“It  wouldn't  alarm  mine.  Hallo,  I  think  1  recognize 
that  showy  little  victoria!” 

They  were  walking  slowly  along  with  the  crowd  beside 
the  line  of  carriages,  which  were  stationary  for  the  mo¬ 
ment.  A  few  steps  brought  them  close  to  the  carriage 
which  had  arrested  Papillon's  attention;  and  both  men 
raised  their  hats  in  answer  to  the  bow  and  smile  of  a  lady 
whose  appearance  was  attracting  a  good  deal  of  comment 
of  various  kinds. 

The  lady  who  was  the  center  of  so  much  observation 
could  not  be  more  than  five-  or  six- and -thirty,  and  looked 
younger,  a  fact  which  was  due  as  much  to  a  certain  sunny 
youthfulness  of  expression  as  to  the  aid  of  pearl-powder. 
Her  dress  partook  sufficiently  of  the  attributes  of  that  of 
the  grand  monde  and  of  the  demi-monde  to  enable  an  acute 
observer  to  decide  that  she  belonged  to  neither.  As  she  sat 
tick,  silent  and  almost  motionless,  by  the  side  of  ajudi- 


BORISES  FORTH  HE, 


15 


ciously  chosen  friend  in  brown,  she  looked  rather  like  a 
well-dressed  and  expensive  wax  doll;  but,  when  she  bowed, 
smiled,  spoke,  and  held  out  a  dainty  and  perfectly  gloved 
little  hand  to  Papillon,  it  was  impossible  to  deny  that  she 
was  charmings 

“  I  haven't  seen  you  for  an  age,  Mr=  Papillon.  I  sup¬ 
pose  you  won't  condescend  to  come  to  the  suburbs  in  the 
season.  All  we  poor  creatures  just  outside  London  can  ex¬ 
pect  is  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  you  sometimes  when  town  is 
empty." 

44  Scold  Glyn  too,  Mrs.  Hodson,  please.” 

“  No,  no!  Pm  the  good  boy,  Mrs.  Hodson,  am  I  not? 
I  called  at  the  Lawns  ten  days  ago,  but  you  were  out.” 

“Well,  come  down  this  evening,  and  Pll  forgive  you 
both.  There  are  two  charming  girls  coming,  besides  sev¬ 
eral  nice  people  you  know.  Oh,  I  mustn't  forget  to  con¬ 
gratulate  you,  Mr.  Glyn!  I  only  heard  the  secret  to-day. 
I  must  call  upon  Miss  Edgcombe,  and  implore  her  not  to 
keep  you  all  to  herself  and  never  let  your  poor  old-fogy 
friends  get  a  sight  of  you.” 

The  line  of  carriages  had  begun  to  move  again,  and  with 
more  gracious  smiles  Mrs,  Hodson  drove  on;  and  the  young 
men  continued  their  walk. 

“  You  are  in  favor  again  now,  Glyn.  I'll  bet  you  what 
you  like  madame  will  not  be  out  next  time  you  call." 

“Do  you  think  not?”  said  the  other  indifferently.  “I 
think  I  shall  find  the  Lawns  just  a  little  too  far  out  of  my 
way  just  now.  South  Kensington  will  be  about  my  limit 
for  the  next  six  weeks. '' 

“  Six  weeks!  Is  it  to  come  off  in  six  weeks?  In  the  mid¬ 
dle  of  the  season,  too?” 

“  Yes.  Doris  is  going  to  give  up  the  end  of  the  season, 
which  is  very  generous  of  her  when  she  is  so  fond  of  excite¬ 
ment.  '' 

t  give  it  up  except  for 
are  not  going  away,  are 

“  No;  we  shall  go  straight  down  to  Fairleigh,  her  place 
on  the  Thames.  It  will  be  just  the  right  time  to  enjoy 
it,  you  see;  we  are  both  fond  of  the  river,  and  the  thought 
of  posting  about  through  the  heat  and  dust  from  one  place 
to  another,  or  hunting  about  for  some  uncomfortable  hotel 
in  some  place  which  is  sure  to  be  either  overcrowded  or  de- 


“  Well,  I  suppose  she  wouldn' 
something  she  likes  better.  You 
you?" 


DORISES  FORTUHE. 


16 


serted,  wteri  there  is  a  charming  home  a  few  miles  off  only, 
waiting  to  be  lived  in,  is  absurd,  we  both  think/ 9 

“  What  a  sensible  pair  you  will  be!  A  model  husband 
and  wife!  I  shall  have  to  show  you  off,  and  give  lectures 
upon  you.  How  soon  may  I  venture  to  come  down  to  be 
eaten  up  with  envy?” 

“  As  soon  as  you  like.  You  know  very  well  you  are  al¬ 
ways  welcome  everywhere.  ” 

“  Because  I  don’t  come  when  I’m  not  wanted.  I’ll  hire 
a  boat  and  row  up  and  down  the  creek  till  you  signal  to  me 
that  I  may  land  without  fear  of  being  considered  an  in¬ 
truder.  By  the  bye,  where  is  Doris  to-day,  that  you  are  off 
duty?” 

“  She  has  gone  down  to  Reading  with  her  grandmother,  N 
to  pay  a  farewell  visit  before  her  marriage  to  some  aunts 
who  are  going  abroad.  She  won’t  be  back  till  to-morrow, 
so  I  feel  rather  stranded.  ” 

“  Shall  we  go  to  the  theater?” 

“  Too  hot!  I  want  to  get  out  of  London;  it  is  too  late 
to  get  down  somewhere  for  a  pull  on  the  river  now,  though. 
Ah,  there  is  Mrs.  Hodson’s  victoria  again!  Surely  she  is 
a  good  deal  more  made  up  than  she  used  to  be  two  years 
ago!  It  is  the  first  time  I’ve  seen  her  by  daylight  since 
I’ve  been  back.  Her  face  looks  quite  blue  in  the  shades.” 

“  Yes:  that  is  the  worst  of  that  liquid  stuff  she  uses;  it 
is  extremely  inartistic.” 

“  Why,  you  know  all  about  it,  or  you  pretend  very  well.  ” 

“  I  flatter  myself  I  can  analyze  any  beauty,  and  tell  you 
exactly  in  what  it  consists,  whether  in  veloutine,  pearl- 
powder,  or  natural  bloom,  features,  expression,  or  tricks. 
Well,  where  shall  we  go?” 

“  Suppose  we  go  down  to  the  Lawns?  We  are  sure  of 
cool  rooms  and  good  champagne  there,  at  any*  rate.  ” 

And  Mrs.  Hodson  promised  some  charming  girls.  But 
I  know  the  sort  of  girls  she  calls  charming,  and  I  don’t 
feel  tempted.  Besides,  I  wouldn’t  go  to  the  Lawns  to¬ 
night  if  I  were  you,  Glyn.” 

“  All  right!  We’ll  go  and  hear  Patti  then,”  said  Glyn, 
indifferently. 


17 


Boris's  fortune. 


CHAPTER  IL 

In  a  house  in  a  well-known  square  of  South  Kensington 
Miss  Edgcombe  sat  at  luncheon  with  her  grandmother  and 
a  girl  friend,  the  day  alter  that  on  which  David  Glyn  and 
Papillon  had  met  Mrs-  Hodson  during  their  stroll  through 
the  park. 

Old  Mrs.  Edgcombe  was  a  handsome  erect  lady  for  her 
age,  which  was  about  sixty-three.  She  had  been  the  con¬ 
stant  guardian  and  companion  of  her  granddaughter,  to 
whom  she  was  devoted,  since  the  death  of  her  own  son  and 
his  wife,  Doris's  parents.  Her  advancing  age  had  begun 
of  late  to  make  her  feel  that  the  time  was  drawing  near 
when  she  must  resign  her  post  of  chaperon  to  her  hand¬ 
some,  much-sought-after  granddaughter  to  younger  hands; 
she  had  been  eager  to  see  her  charge  happily  married,  and 
had  been  the  first  to  rejoice  over  her  engagement  to  David 
Glyn.  The  high-minded  if  somewhat  extravagant  princi¬ 
ples  which  Doris  held  in  money-matters  had  been  inculcated 
by  the  elder  lady,  who  had  determined  to  leave  her  own 
property,  which  was  considerable,  to  her  granddaughter, 
under  the  entire  control  of  the  latter's  husband.  She  had 
had  reason,  in  her  youth,  to  be  disgusted  with  sordid  money- 
quarrels,  and  she  held  that  no  man  was  fit  to  be  trusted 
with  a  girl's  happiness  who  could  not  be  trusted  with  her 
money. 

She  had  returned  with  Doris  from  Reading  that  morn¬ 
ing,  and — an  old  school-fellow,  who  had  called  to  inquire  if 
it  was  really  true  that  the  flinty-hearted  Miss  Edgcombe 
had  at  last  succumbed  to  a  common  human  emotion,  having 
stayed  to  luncheon — the  three  ladies  sat  around  the  table 
talking  about  wedding-presents  and  the  trousseau . 

“  Shall  you  be  married  in  white  or  in  traveling-dress?" 
asked  Hilda  Warren,  a  pretty,  clever-looking  little  woman, 
rather  eccentrically  dressed. 

“  In  ivory-colored  brocade.  I  don't  care  for  the  thought 
of  sneaking  into  the  church  in  every-day  dress,  as  if  I  felt 
ashamed  of  what  I  was  doing,  and  didn't  want  to  be  no¬ 
ticed.  I  want  to  look  my  very,  very  best,  to  make  David 
feel  proud  of  me,  and  to  make  the  very  idlers  who  crowd 


18 


doris's  fortune. 


round  the  door  to  see  what  the  bride  is  like — as  they  always 
do,  you  know — nudge  each  other  and  say,  ‘  My!  Don't  she 
look  nice!'  and  think  my  husband  a  lucky  fellow." 

Both  her  companions  looked  at  Doris  with  an  expression 
which  plainly  showed  that  her  last  words  echoed  their  own 
opinion.  As  she  sat  back  in  her  chair,  and  spoke  saucily, 
but  with  real  pride  and  pleasure  in  her  face,  no  one  could 
have  denied  that,  as  far  as  beauty  went,  her  future  husband 
would  have  found  it  hard  to  make  a  better  choice. 

Miss  Edgcombe  was  a  brunette,  rather  above  the  middle 
height,  of  slight  but  well-shaped  figure,  with  delicately 
slender  hands  and  feet,  and  almost  faultlessly  regular  face. 
As  is  usually  the  case  with  beauties  of  this  type,  the  first 
impression  of  admiration  in  looking  at  the  face  was  fre¬ 
quently  followed  by  a  sense  that  there  was  something  want¬ 
ing,  that  the  beautiful  eyes  sparkled,  but  did  not  speak, 
the  well-cut  mouth  smiled,  but  never  grew  soft.  It  was 
only  at  rare  moments  that  some  passing  emotion  would 
bring  the  rich  color  to  her  cheek  and  light  up  her  face  with 
a  brilliancy  wThich  was  bewitching. 

She  was  looking  her  best  as  she  raised  her  dark  eyes  to 
her  old  school-fellow's  face  and  laughed. 

“  I  don't  think  I've  ever  seen  Mr.  Glyn,  Doris." 

“  Haven't  you?  I  have  a  portrait  of  him  upstairs;  come 
and  tell  me  what  you  think  of  him. " 

The  girls  rose  and  left  the  room,  followed  more  slowly 
by  the  elder  lady;  and  they  all  three  went  up  to  the  draw¬ 
ing-room,  which  was  furnished  rather  somberly,  by  a  freak 
of  its  young  mistress. 

The  floor  was  stained  and  polished,  and  there  was  only  a 
small  square  carpet  in  front  of  the  fire-place.  The  windows 
and  doors  were  draped  with  curtains  of  dark-crimson 
plush,  lined  with  silk  of  Oriental  pattern  and  blended  col¬ 
ors.  The  wainscoting  and  wood-work  were  stained  the 
same  color  as  the  floor,  and  the  walls  were  not  papered, 
but  tinted  in  pale  buff.  The  furniture  was  covered  with 
crimson  plush,  with  cushions  embroidered  in  many  colors. 
There  were  marble  statuettes  in  the  corners  of  the  room, 
in  high  relief  against  the  dark  curtains;  the  windows  were 
blocked  by  stands  full  of  leafy  plants;  the  only  flower  ad¬ 
mitted  among  them  being  the  pale,  heavy,  washed-out-look- 
ing  hydrangea.  There  was  a  striking  absence  of  ornament 
on  the  stands,  the  brackets,  the  easily  upset  tables  covered 


doris's  fortune. 


19 


with  trifles,  which  make  progress  difficult  in  most  modem 
drawing-rooms.  There  was  a  large  carved  cabinet  full  of 
not  very  curious  curiosities,  chiefly  relics  of  the  campaigns 
of  Mrs.  Edgcombe's  late  husband,  who  had  been  a  soldier; 
there  was  a  grand  piano,  and  there  was  a  large  pile  of 
music. 

“  Do  you  know,  I  like  this  room  better  than  any  I  know," 
said  Hilda  Warren,  as  they  came  in. 

“  Do  you?  Most  people  call  it  bare.  And  I  am  begin¬ 
ning  to  think  myself  that  it  is  rather  a  mistake.  It  is  a 
sort  of  temple  to  old  memories.  The  floor  and  the  hydrangeas 
are  for  the  sake  of  a  French  country-house  I  used  to  stay  at 
when  I  was  a  child;  the  cabinet  and  its  contents  are  a 
shrine  to  grandpapa;  the  plants  are  the  same  as  those  we 
used  to  have  in  the  conservatory  at  Ambleside,  where  I  was 
born.  And  in  the  piano  is  the  spell  which  carries  me  back 
to  any  one  of  those  places  and  the  people  who  lived  in 
them.  This  is  Mr.  Glyn. " 

She  took  from  the  mantel-piece  a  framed  photograph  and 
handed  it  to  her  friend,  who  looked  at  it  long  and  critically. 

“  He  is  very  handsome,"  said  she  at  last;  “  and  he  looks 
very  good  and  very  nice,  and  altogether  quite  the  right  sort 
of  man  to  be  the  hero  of  your  romantic  dreams.  I  never 
knew  you  were  so  romantic  until  to-day;  you  have  given 
the  key  of  your  heart  to  the  right  person,  Doris,  for  you 
are  much  nicer  now  he  has  opened  it.  And  who  is  this?" 

Hilda,  peering  about  among  the  things  on  the  mantel¬ 
piece,  had  unearthed  another  portrait,  half  hidden  behind  a 
candelabrum. 

“  Why,  this  one  is  handsome  too!  Who  is  it,  Doris? 
Isn't  Mr.  Glyn  jealous  of  your  having  another  ‘  juvenile  9 
as  a  pendant  to  him?" 

Hilda  Warren  was  an  actress:  she  thought  it  was  the  in¬ 
troduction  of  a  theatrical  term  into  her  speech  which  made 
old  Mrs.  Edgcombe  grow  suddenly  very  upright.  Doris 
took  the  portrait  laughingly  from  her  hand. 

“  Oh,  no;  Mr.  Glyn  has  no  need  to  be  jealous;  that  is 
not  a  hated  rival!"  said  she. 

“  Rival!  I  should  think  not!"  broke  in  Mrs.  Edg¬ 
combe,  severely.  “  They  ought  not  to  be  mentioned  in  the 
same  breath.  I  am  surprised  at  you,  Doris,  for  allowing  a 
portrait  of  David  Glyn  to  remain  on  the  same  shelf  with 
that  of  Augustus  Melton." 


20 


dokis’s  fortune. 


“  Well,  grandmamma,  don’t  be  angry;  I  didn’t  even 
know  he  was  there.  He  had  had  the  sense  to  creep  into  a 
corner  where  nobody  could  see  him  and  frown  at  him. 
We’ll  take  him  away  altogether,  and  leave  David  to  undis¬ 
puted  sovereignty  of  the  mantel-piece.” 

“  Doris,  I  think  that  joking  way  of  talking  about  them 
is  very  unbecoming.  I  should  think  Mr.  Glyn  would  dis¬ 
approve  of  your  keeping  a  portrait  of  Augustus  at  all.  ” 

“  If  Mr.  Glyn  objects,  Gussie  shall  go.  Only  don’t  call 
the  poor  boy  6  Augustus,’  grandmamma,  please,”  said  the 
girl,  good-humoredly. 

But  Mrs.  Edgcombe  was  offended;  and  in  a  few  min¬ 
utes,  after  turning  a  deaf  ear  to  all  her  granddaughter’s 
conciliatory  speeches,  she  made  some  excuse  about  fetohing 
some  work  she  wanted,  and  left  the  room. 

“  Now  grandmamma  is  offended  for  the  rest  of  the  day,” 
said  Doris,  when  the  door  closed  upon  the  old  lady.  “  I 
am  so  sorry;  and  yet  I  don’t  think  it  was  my  fault.  I  did 
not  mean  to  vex  her;  but  I  don’t  like  to  hear  the  absent 
consigned  to  stern  silence  without  a  little  pity.  ” 

“  Who  is  this  wicked  Augustus,  or  this  unfortunate  Gus¬ 
sie?  Is  he  a  ne’er-do-weel  admirer  for  whom  you  have  just 
a  glimmer  of  lingering  tenderness?  I  shouldn’t  have  sus¬ 
pected  you  of  such  a  thing  before  to-day;  but,  now  that 
you  have  proved  yourself  to  be  human  by  falling  in  love 
with  Mr.  Glyn,  why,  you  may  be  even  guilty  of  the  femi¬ 
nine  weakness  of  being  sorry  for  a  scapegrace!  Do  tell  me 
the  story,  Doris;  I’ve  told  you  all  my  love-affairs,  and  given 
you  the  benefit  of  a  long  experience  in  these  matters.  Now 
tell  me  yours,  and  I  will  take  your  one  confession  as  a  bal¬ 
ance  to  my  half  dozen.  You  know  I  can  keep  a  secret.” 

“  But  there  is  no  secret  to  keep,”  said  Doris,  laughing. 
“  And  what  do  you  mean  by  asking  me  to  tell  you  my 
*  one  ’  love-story?  I  have  had  only  one,  and  that  you 
know — my  engagement  to  Mr.  Glyn.” 

“  But  that  is  not  what  I  can  a  love-story — it  is  not 
romantic  enough,”  said  Hilda  impulsively.  ‘ c  You  are  not 
what  I  call  in  love  with  Mr.  Glyn  at  all.” 

4  4  Then  I  am  afraid  I  shall  never  be  what  you  call  4  in 
love.’  But  what  do  you  want  me  to  do?  You  don’t  ex¬ 
pect  me  to  talk  about  him  in  blank  verse,  or  spend  any 
me  on  my  knees  before  his  photograph,  do  you?” 


BORISES  FOkTUXE.  21 

il  Oh,  yes,  that  is  what  I  always  do  when  Pm  in  love !' ' 
said  Hilda,  dryly. 

“  Now,  Hilda,  tell  me  seriously  what  you  mean.  You 
have  brought  a  grave  charge  against  me,  and  you  must 
prove  it  or  withdraw  it.  You  have  accused  me  of  want  of 
warmth — " 

“  Oh,  dear,  no!  I  was  quite  touched  by  the  enthusiasm 
you  showed  when  I  asked  you  at  what  time  Mr.  Glyn  was 
coming  to-day.  6  Oh,  he  may  come  at  three,  or  he  may 
come  at  four,  or  perhaps  he  won't  be  here  till  we  go  out, 
soon  after  five!'  That  is  what  you  said,  with  just  as  much 
excitement  as  if  he  had  been  a  tradesman  coming  for  an 
order!  Why,  if  I  were  in  love,  and  expecting  the  man  I 
was  fond  of,  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  sit  still;  I  should  be 
mad  with  the  hands  of  the  clock  for  not  going  round  faster; 
I  should  get  a  book  and  set  myself  a  task  of  reading  so 
many  chapters  before  T  would  let  myself  see  what  the  time 
was  again;  I  should  upset  all  those  nicely  arranged  flowers 
by  rushing  to  the  window  twenty  times!  Long  before 
three  o'clock  came,  1  should  be  in  a  fever;  while  you — 
Doris,  I  believe,  if  he  were  not  to  come  until — until  six 
o'clock,  you  would  not  say,  c  How  tiresome  of  him  to  put 
out  all  my  arrangements!'  Of  course  I  know  your  emotion 
of  impatience  because  he  upsets  your  plans  is  much  better- 
bred  than  my  impatience  to  see  the  man  because  I  love 
him;  but  then  you  know  I  am  only  a  Bohemian." 

And  the  girl,  whose  restless  excitable  nature  betrayed 
itself  as  she  spoke  by  quick  nervous  movements  of  the 
hands  as  much  as  by  the  volubility  with  which  she  poured 
forth  her  words,  dropped  from  her  chair  on  to  a  cushion  at 
the  feet  of  her  calmer  companion,  with  a  little  curl  of  the 
lip  to  belie  the  humility  of  the  end  of  her  speech. 

“  Yes;  but  you  don't  make  allowance  for  the  difference 
between  my  temperament  and  yours.  You  can't  imagine 
me  hopping  about  between  the  clock  and  the  door  with  my 
hands  through  my  hair  every  two  minutes,  any  more  than 
I  can  picture  you  sitting  quietly  and  stiffly  on  a  chair  wait¬ 
ing  with  beautiful  submission  until  your  hero,  as  you  call 
him,  chose  to  shed  on  you  the  sunshine  of  his  presence. " 

“  Oh,  you  want  me  to  think  that  the  difference  between 

us  is  only  that  your  affections  are  under  better  control  than 

mine!  Well,  then,  I  don't  believe  it.  You  could  no  more 

sit  there  and  chatter  to  me  calmlv  about  a  dozen  different 

«/ 


22 


r>01lIS*S  FORTUXE. 


things  while  you  were  expecting  Mr.  Glyn,  if  you  were 
really  fond  of  him,  than  I  could.” 

“  You  mean  that  I  am  a  cold-blooded  creature — a  sort  of 
fish  by  nature,  quite  incapable  of  feeling  any  emotion  above 
tepid -point.  ” 

“  No,  I  don’t;  I  mean  that  you  don’t  feel  any  emotion 
above  tepid-point  for  Mr.  Glvn.  ” 

“  But,  Hilda,  you  mustn’t  say  that.  Indeed  it  is  not 
true!”  said  Doris,  rather  disturbed.  “  I  am  not  nearly  so 
excitable  as  you,  I  am  not  even  sure  that  I  can  feel  quite 
so  much — certainly  I  could  not  show  as  much;  but  I  admire 
Mr.  Glyn  more  than  any  man  I  have  ever  met;  I  respect 
his  opinion  in  everything;  I  am  never  so  happy  as  when  I 
am  with  him;  I  try  to  please  him  far  harder  than  I  ever 
tried  to  please  any  man  before;  and  I  feel  jealous  of  every 
other  woman  he  looks  at.  Surely  that  is  love  worth  hav¬ 
ing!  At  any  rate,  it  is  the  best  I  have  to  give.” 

Hilda  shook  her  head. 

“  Too  calm!”  said  she  briefly. 

“  And  don’t  you  think  a  steady  feeling  like  that,  which 
never  rises  and  never  sinks,  is  a  better  foundation  for  a  love 
which  is  to  last  a  life-time  than  a  spasmodic  emotion  which 
can  not  last,  which  brings,  on  the  whole,  as  much  pain  and 
discomfort  as  pleasure  even  to  the  object  of  it,  and  which 
you  yourself  admit  you  can  feel  for  a  succession  of  people?” 
finished  Doris  triumphantly. 

“  And  how  can  you  be  sure  your  admiration  and  respect 
will  last  a  life-time  either?”  asked  the  young  actress  per¬ 
sistently.  “  You  have  no  more  reason  to  be  sure  that  this 
Mr.  Glyn,  whom  you  have  known  only  a  few  weeks,  will 
always  be  worthy  of  the  respect  and  all  that  which  he  has 
inspired  you  with  than  I  had  for  supposing  the  poor  painter 
who  followed  me  like  my  shadow  would  become  the  great¬ 
est  artist  of  the  day,  just  because  the  very  sound  of  his 
voice  set  me  trembling  with  happiness.  ”  *> 

‘ c  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  reason  ought  to  have  nothing 
to  do  with  love?” 

“  I  don’t  say  anything  about  ‘  ought, ’but  I  think  reason 
has  very  little  to  do  with  it.” 

“  Then  the  less  one  has  to  do  with  love  the  better.” 

“  Yejs,  perhaps,  if  one  could  choose;  but  one  can’t,  you 
Vww.” 

.  “  Some  can.” 


Doris's  fortuhe. 


as 

“  You  think  you  can.  Of  course  you  may  be  right;  I 
don't  know.  But  I  don't  think  such  a  nice  woman  as  you 
are,  and  romantic  too,  will  be  able  to  get  through  life  with¬ 
out — loving.  Have  you  read  Alfred  de  Musset's  lines  on  a 
woman  who  died  without  having  loved? — 

“  ‘  Elle  est  morte  sans  avoir  vecu, 

De  sa  main  est  tombe  le  livre 
Dans  lequel  elle  n’  rien  lu.’  ” 

“  Yes,  that  is  very  pretty — 

“  ‘  Without  having  lived  she  is  dead, 

From  her  hand  the  book  has  fallen 
From  which  she  has  nothing  read.’ 

But  I  shouldn't  go  to  De  Musset  for  a  standard  of  con¬ 
duct." 

“  No;  you  may  not  go  to  him  to  find  out  what  one  ought 
to  do;  but  you  might  do  worse  than  go  to  him  to  find  out 
what  one  does. " 

“  Oh,  you  wicked  play-actress!  What  would  grandmam¬ 
ma  say  if  she  could  hear  you?" 

“  She  would  be  very  much  shocked,  of  course.  But  she 
had  read  and  thought  over  the  matter  we  are  discussing 
long  before  she  met  your  grandfather. " 

“  Then  you  really  think,  Hilda,  that  I  shall  lose  my  head 
some  day — I,  who  have  arrived  at  the  age  of  four-and- 
twenty,  retaining  the  full  possession  of  all  my  faculties?" 

“  But  are  you  sure  you  have  never  been  in  love — lost 
your  head — whatever  you  like  to  call  it — already?  Perhaps 
you  won't  confess  to  me?" 

“  Yes,  I  would,  if  I  had  anything  to  confess.  But  I  am 
ashamed  to  say  that  my  attachment  to  Mr.  Glyn,  which 
you  despise,  is  the  nearest  approach  to  that  love  you  say  I 
must  feel  that  I  have  ever  had  for  any  man.  And  now, 
you  see,  I  am  going  to  settle  down  to  matrimony,  so  that 
my  chance  of  a  romance  is  over.  For  I  hope  even  you, 
with  your  alarming  code,  will  allow  that  I  shall  be  safe 
then." 

“  Seriously,  I  am  not  sure  about  that.  If  I  were  a  man, 
I  should  feel  safer  in  marrying  a  girl  like  me,  who  had  sown 
the  wild  oats  of  her  affections,  as  it  were,  than  in  marrying 
a  girl  like  you,  who  has  never  loved  anybody  and  whose 
capabilities  have  therefore  never  been  sounded.  Of  course 


3)0HIS*S  FOMtTK®. 


2i 

a  man,  in  marrying  you,  can  pride  himself  on  being  youf 
first  love;  but  in  marrying  me  he  might  feel  a  great  deal 
surer  of  being  the  last/* 

“  I  shall  tell  David  what  you  say,  and  ask  him  if  he  feels 
nervous/’ 

“  I  don’t  think  he  need  feel  so/* 

“  Not  after  all  your  complaints  of  my  ‘  tepid  affection  * 
for  him  and  your  warnings  about  the  6  unsound  capabili¬ 
ties  *  of  cold  women?*  * 

“  No .  I  believe  this  Mr.  Glyn  is  so  sweet-tempered  and 
handsome  and  good  that  you  will  really  love  him  after  you 
are  married  to  him.  I  believe  you  have  a  nature  not  easily 
kindled;  I  won*t  believe  you  have  no  warmth  in  vou  at 
all.** 

“That  is  what  they  all  tell  me,  though,**  said  Doris, 
slowly— “  all  but  David,  that  is  to  say;  he  makes  no  com¬ 
plaints  of  me  in  any  way.  And,  if  I  am  warm  enough  to* 
please  him,  what  more  can  I  want?** 

“  Nothing,  indeed,**  said  Hilda,  looking  at  her  narrowly. 
iC  And  who  are  the  ‘  all  of  them  *  who  complain  of  your 
coldness?** 

“  Oh,  the  other  men  who  have  wanted  to  marry  me — and 
my  money!**  said  Doris,  in  rather  a  hard  tone. 

“  But  why  do  you  sneer,  as  if  it  were  impossible  for  them 
to  care  for  you  yourself  apart  from  your  money?  And, 
however  devotedly  a  man  might  love  you,  he  couldn*t  be 
quite  indifferent  to  the  fact  that  you  were  rich.  ** 

“  David  is,**  said  Doris,  turning  round  quickly,  with  a 
gleam  of  pride  and  pleasure  in  her  eyes.  “  My  money  ab¬ 
solutely  stood  in  the  way  of  his  proposing  to  me,  not 
through  his  diffidence,  but  his  distaste  for  the  responsibility 
of  being  rich.** 

“  Oh,  he  is  perfect,  of  course!**  said  Hilda,  rather  im¬ 
patiently.  46  I  expect  you  were  rather  hard  on  the  poor 
fellows  who  hadn’t  arrived  at  such  a  sublime  pitch  of  dis¬ 
interestedness.** 

“  Now  you  are  sneering;  a  minute  ago — ** 

“  No,  I*m  not.  I  want  to  know  how  you  penetrated  the 
sordid  motives  of  your  other  admirers,  and  in  what  way  you 
dismissed  them.  *  * 

“  Dismissed  them!  I  didn’t  dismiss  many,  and  I  didn’t 
care  enough  about  them  to  care  what  their  motives  were. 

I  have  had  very  few  downright  proposals—  not  more  than 


Doris’s  fortune. 


25 


two  distinct  offers  of  marriage,  I  think.  You  see,  a  man 
can’t  ask  you  to  be  his  wife  unless  you  have  given  him 
some  sort  of  encouragement,  if  he  is  not  an  absolute  idiot.” 

“  I  think  it  is  very  good  of  you,  with  your  opportunities 
and  advantages,  not  to  flirt  more  than  you  do.  Why,  with 
very  little  trouble,  you  might  have  half  the  men  in  town  at 
your  feet!” 

“  And  all  the  women  in  town  about  my  ears.  I  haven’t 
the  courage  to  maintain  such  a  position  as  that,  even  if  I 
had  the  inclination.  You  know  I  am  called  a  coquette 
now,  because  I  feel  bound  to  be  civil  to  everybody — at 
least,  everybody  I  don’t  dislike — in  return  for  the  attention 
most  people  pay  me.  I  sometimes  think,  if  I  were  not  so 
well  off,  I  might  play  at  being  a  little  cruel  now  and  then, 
for  my  own  amusement;  but,  placed  as  I  am,  if  I  were  to 
encourage  a  poor  man — one  of  those  charming  detrimentals, 
for  instance,  who  always  flirt  more  pleasantly  than  anybody 
else — and  then  throw  him  over,  as  other  girls  do,  without 
feeling  that  they  have  done  any  great  harm,  why,  in  me  it 
would  be  worse  than  cruel — it  would  be  mean!” 

“  You  always  seem  to  be  thinking  more  of  your  money 
than  of  yourself.  It  seems  to  be  an  absolute  burden  to 
you.” 

6  ‘  It  is,  in  some  respects.  People  will  do  such  mean 
things  for  the  sake  of  it — people  you  never  believed  capable 
of  deceit,”  said  Doris,  with  warmth.  ‘ 4  It  is  a  very  painful 
and  humiliating  thing  to  find  out  that  the  attentions,  even 
of  a  person  who  was  indifferent  to  you,  were  really  directed 
not  to  you,  but  to  your  fortune.” 

“  Has  that  ever  happened  to  you,  Doris?”  asked  Hilda, 
much  interested. 

“  Yes.  I  will  teH  you  about  it,  and  then  I  don’t  think 
you  will  be  so  much  surprised  by  what  I  see  you  consider 
the  strained  way  in  which  I  look  at  money-matters.  You 
know  I  spend  part  of  every  year  at  Ambleside  with  grand¬ 
mamma,  at  my  dear  old  Delhi  Lodge,  where  I  was  born? 
Well,  last  autumn,  when  we  were  there,  some  friends  of 
ours,  the  Bryants,  had  taken  a  house  at  Bowness,  and  of 
course  we  were  always  riding  and  driving  and  rowing  and 
fishing  together.  There  was  a  young  fellow  staying  with 
them  who  was  always  about  with  Marion  Bryant,  who  is  a 
very  nice  girl,  two  or  three  years  older  than  I  am,  not  at 


26 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


all  pretty,  but  very  good-natured.  Soon  after  mv  appear¬ 
ance  there,  he  transferred  his  attentions  to  me,  and  devoted 
himself  to  me  with  an  utter  disregard  of  everybody  else, 
which  made  us  all  laugh.  Marion  took  his  desertion  very 
good-humoredly,  and  everybody  seemed  to  think  it  very 
natural,  and  nobody  thought  seriously  about  it.  He  was 
about  two  years  younger  than  I;  but  he  was  so  very  boyish 
and  had  such  bad,  spoiled  manners,  that  he  seemed  a  great 
deal  younger;  and  we  all  treated  him  as  if  he  had  been 
about  fifteen.  He  seemed  so  headstrong  and  thoughtless, 
and  made  love  to  me  in  such  a  silly,  candid,  school-boy  sort 
of  fashion,  that  I  never  for  a  moment  suspected  his  disin¬ 
terestedness  or  believed  that  he  thought  about  me  seriously 
at  all.  He  took  possession  of  me,  and  laughed  at  my  jokes, 
and  took  my  snubs  and  my  scoldings  just  like  a  cross, 
spoiled  child.  We  got  on  beautifully  together;  and,  when 
he  made  love  to  me,  I  laughed,  and  he  left  off,  and  just 
followed  my  lead  in  everything.  Then  he  went  away  sud¬ 
denly,  and  I  rather  missed  him  at  first — he  used  to  laugh 
so  heartily;  but  more  people  came,  and  I  soon  forgot  all 
about  the  boy.  Then,  when  we  came  back  to  town,  I  met 
him  again  one  day  at  the  Bryants*,  and  he  worked  his  way 
round  to  me  and  tried  to  pick  up  our  acquaintance  just 
where  it  had  dropped.  Of  course  that  was  out  of  the  ques¬ 
tion;  the  boy  was  nothing  to  me — if  he  had  been,  I  should 
have  been  hurt  and  unhappy  at  his  abrupt  disappearance 
from  Bowness  without  saying  good-bye  to  me.  As  it  was,  I 
was  obliged  to  snub  him;  and  the  lad,  who  has  no  more 
character  than  a  child,  was  so  utterly  crest-fallen  and  sub¬ 
dued  under  my  rebuke  that,  when  I  met  him  again,  I  was 
obliged  to  be  very  kind  to  him,  for  he  shrunk  away  from 
me  just  like  a  dog  that  has  been  whipped.** 

“  Then  you  did  coquette  with  him?** 

“  I  did  not  mean  to;  but  a  word,  either  kind  or  unkind, 
has  so  much  more  effect  upon  his  weak  excitable  nature 
than  it  would  have  had  upon  any  other  man.  It  seemed 
absurd  to  think  of  him  as  a  man;  he  was  a  great  overgrown 
spoiled  boy.** 

“  What  was  he  like?** 

“  He  was  a  great  big  broad-shouldered  fellow — uncouth, 
the  men  called  him — with  pretty  vacant  gray  eyes  and  such 
lovely  teeth;  his  face  I  should  have  called  handsome  if  it 
had  only  expressed  anything.  But  he  had  a  low  forehead, 


DORISES  FORTUNE.  27 

to  show  he  hadn^t  any  brains,  and  a  mouth  like  a  wom¬ 
an  ^s.^ 

Hilda  gave  a  glance  at  the  photograph  which  had  been 
displaced  from  its  hiding-place  on  the  mantel-piece  and  lay 
now  on  a  chair.  Doris  did  not  notice  the  look,  and  con¬ 
tinued: 

“  Then  he  began  to  try  to  talk  seriously  to  me  whenever 
we  met.  I  always  stopped  him  and  laughed  at  him;  but 
sometimes  that  made  him  cross  for  about  a  minute  and  a 
half,  for  he  hadn’t  character  enough  to  sulk  consistently. 
Then  he  talked  to  me  about  his  expectations  in  a  way  which 
led  me  to  believe  he  was  very  well  off.  I  was  never  unkind 
to  him,  I  never  took  him  seriously,  and  I  never  for  a  mo¬ 
ment  gave  him  cause  to  think,  if  he  had  been  not  so  very 
silly,  that  I  cared  about  him.  About  that  time  David 
Glyn  was  introduced  to  me,  and  this  silly  boy  had  to  be 
snubbed  again  for  showing  annoyance  because  I  spoke  ad¬ 
miringly  of  him.  Then  one  night,  at  a  dance,”  Doris  went 
on  hesitatingly,  in  a  lower  voice,  “  Gussie  lost  his  head; 
and,  when  he  had  taken  me  into  the  conservatory  after  a 
waltz,  and  I  had  sat  down  and  leaned  my  head  back  amongst 
the  flowers  in  that  delicious  half -weariness  you  feel  when  you 
have  been  dancing  and  you  still  hear  the  music,  and  the 
light  is  soft  and  the  flowers  are  sweet,  he  suddenly  threw 
himself  beside  me  and  flung  his  arm  round  me,  and,  if  it 
had  not  been  for  the  sound  of  the  voices  of  two  other  people 
who  were  just  coming  in,  he  would  have  kissed  me.” 

“  And  what  then?”  asked  Hilda,  breathlessly. 

“  Of  course  he  started  up;  and  we  went  out,  and  I  was 
very  angry,  very  much  offended,  and  would  not  speak  to 
him  again  that  night.  And  next  day  they  told  me  that  he 
was  deeply  in  debt  and  had  no  expectations  at  all  worth 
speaking  of,  and  that  he  had  been  told  that  nothing  but  a 
good  marriage  could  put  him  straight.  It  would  have 
made  no  difference  to  me  if  the  headstrong  boy  had  been  a 
millionaire;  but  I  was  very  much  disgusted  to  think  I  had 
been  deceived,  for  I  had  not  for  one  moment  thought  his 
childish  attentions  interested.” 

“  Do  you  know  I  think  you  treated  him  very  badly.” 

“  I  can’t  agree  with  you.  A  few  days  afterward  I  ac¬ 
cepted  David  Glyn,  and  Gussie  had  the  shockingly  bad  taste 
to  insult  him.  Of  course  David  treated  his  petulant  in¬ 
solence  beautifully,  and  wTas  quite  sorry  for  him,  even  when 


28 


DORISES  FOBTUKE. 


I  told  him  the  boy  had  only  wanted  my  money.  Now  do 
you  understand  my  feeling  about  it?” 

“  Now  I  understand  two  things.  May  I  say  them? 
One  is  that  you  were  a  great  deal  too  hard  upon  the  boy, 
as  you  call  him;  the  other  is  that  you  were  a  great  deal 
nearer  being  in  love  with  that  unlucky  Gussie  than  you 
have  ever  been  with  Mr.  Glyn. ** 

The  front  door  bell  rang  as  Doris  rose  from  her  seat, 
laughing. 

“  Hilda,  you  will  read  everything  by  the  light  of  your 
imagination,  and  not  by  that  of  common  sense.  That  is 
David* s  voice.** 

The  bright  color  had  come  into  her  face  at  the  sound. 

“  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  6  poor  Gussie  *?** 
said  Hilda,  taking  up  the  photograph  hurriedly. 

(i  Oh,  6  poor  Gussie  *  can  stay  where  he  is!  David  has 
no  reason  to  be  jealous  of  him,**  answered  Doris,  contempt¬ 
uously. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Nike  weeks  had  passed  since  Doris  Edgcombe  listened 
to  the  reproaches  and  warnings  of  the  young  actress,  Hilda 
Warren,  and  she  had  now  settled  down  to  matrimony  in 
her  own  river-side  house,  Fairleigh,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Thames. 

The  honey-moon  was  nearly  over,  and  her  husband  was 
away  from  her  for  the  first  time  since  their  marriage.  Old 
Mrs.  Edgcombe,  to  whom  she  had  written  two  days  before, 
announcing  that  she  would  be  alone  on  this  day,  had  taken 
the  opportunity  to  come  down  and  find  out  how  the  young 
couple  were  getting  on,  ready  with  sage  advice  to  her 
granddaughter  as  to  the  proper  management  of  a  husband, 
with  keenly  critical  eyes  for  shortcomings  in  the  newly 
established  household.  Doris  had  driven  her  pretty  ponies 
in  her  own  little  carriage  to  meet  her  grandmother,  and  the 
latter  noted  at  once  that  the  young  wife  looked  well,  hand¬ 
some,  and  happy.  A  drive  of  only  a  few  minutes  brought 
them  to  Fairleigh. 

It  was  a  two-storied  white  house,  jutting  out  here  and 
Shore  with  looms  added  wherever  they  were  wanted,  until 
original  scheme  of  architecture  had  been  entirely  lost 


Doris’s  fortune. 


29 


sight  of,  and  presenting  plenty  of  variety  in  the  way  of 
roof,  slates,  and  tiles  of  different  shapes  covering  the  out¬ 
buildings,  which  were  of  various  heights,  and  overgrown, 
some  with  ivy,  some  with  fruitless  fruit-trees;  while  the 
front  and  left  side  of  the  house,  which  had  been  left  as 
originally  built,  were  sweet  with  thickly  growing  small  red 
roses  and  with  heavy  clusters  of  clematis  and  graceful  trails 
Df  jasmine. 

The  two  ladies  passed  under  the  portico,  where  Doris’s 
pug  received  them  with  the  languidly  condescending  recog  - 
nition  of  well-fed,  petted  old  age,  through  the  low,  wide, 
carpeted  hall,  and  between  heavy  curtains  to  the  drawing¬ 
room,  a  square  cool  room  where  the  July  afternoon’  sun 
never  penetrated. 

Doris  had  indulged  in  no  freaks  of  originality  here;  it 
was  a  pleasant  room,  furnished  in  the  modern  manner, 
without  bright  colors  or  gilding,  with  plenty  cf  books  and 
papers  lying  about,  and  a  faint  smell  of  tobacco  telling  a 
tale  of  easy-going  good  nature  on  the  part  of  the  mistress 
of  the  house,  which  was  to  the  elder  lady  as  the  distant 
sound  of  battle  is  supposed  to  be  to  the  charger. 

“  Why,  my  dear  Doris  ” — with  a  gentle  incredulous  little 
sniff — “  surely  you  do  not  allow  your  husband  to  smoke  in 
the  drawing-room?” 

“  Oh,  yes,  David  smokes  everywhere,  grandmamma! 
Men  do  now,  you  know.  And,  even  if  they  did  not,  I 
should  have  to  relax  all  rules  in  favor  of  his  cigars;  he  is 
never  happy  unless  he  is  smoking.” 

Nothing  less  than  the  discovery  that  her  grandson-in-law 
had  another  wife  or  two  in  the  background  could  have 
lowered  him  in  her  eyes  as  this  admission  did;  she  pursed 
up  her  lips,  but  said  no  more,  like  a  wise  lady,  and  without 
more  comment,  allowed  Doris  to  lead  her  to  a  seat  by  the 
door  which  opened  on  to  the  lawn.  She  had  come  with 
words  of  warning,  with  a  little  comfort  and  counsel  too, 
should  they  be  needed  by  this  wife  whose  husband  had  left 
her  for  three  whole  days  before  the  end  of  the  honey-moon. 
But  Doris  was  as  smiling  as  the  morn,  was  passing  her  tem¬ 
porary  widowhood  in  perfect  peace,  and  was  looking  lovely 
and  radiant  as  she  had  never  looked  in  her  girlhood. 

The  elder  lady’s  doubts  and  fears  were  for  the  moment 
set  at  rest;  and,  when  tea  was  brought  in,  and  the  young 
wife  had  brought  her  fruit  gathered  by  her  own  hands,  and 


30 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


was  sitting  on  a  footstool  at  her  feet  in  a  caressing  attitude 
not  usual  with  Doris,  Mrs.  Edgcombe  said  kindly — 

“  You  seem  very  happy,  my  dear.” 

“  I  am  as  happy  as  the  clay  is  long,  just  as  they  say  in 
children’s  story-books,  grandmamma,  I  have  nothing  to 
wish  for.  ” 

“  What  takes  David  away  from  you?” 

“  Oh,  an  old  friend  of  his,  whom  he  hasn’t  seen  for  years, 
is  in  Paris  for  a  few  days  just  before  starting  for  America! 
David  said  he  wished  he  could  see  him,  and  I  asked  him 
why  he  didn’t  go.  So  he  went.  He  will  be  back  to-mor¬ 
row.” 

“  It  seems  a  very  trifling  cause  to  take  a  husband  away 
from  his  newly  married  wife.  ” 

“  Do  you  think  so — to  see  a  friend  he  may  not  have  an¬ 
other  chance  of  meeting  for  years?  It  was  I  who  suggested 
his  going.” 

“  Then  why  didn’t  he  take  you  with  him?” 

“  I  never  offered  to  go.  It  is  too  hot  for  traveling,  and 
I  hate  Paris  in  July.” 

“  But  surely  your  husband’s  society  is  an  attraction  great 
enough  to  compensate  even  for  a  little  heat?” 

“  Yes,  of  course  it  would  be  if  I  couldn’t  see  him  at  any 
other  time.  But,  as  it  was,  I  thought  I  should  like  better 
the  piquancy  of  a  parting  and  the  delight  of  welcoming  him 
back.  And,  for  a  short  stay  and  a  rapid  journey  like  that, 
I  think  it  must  be  pleasanter  for  a  man  to  be  alone;  a 
woman  is  only  in  the  way.” 

“  Your  husband  told  you  you  would  be  in  his  way?” 
cried  Mrs.  Edgcombe,  in  horror. 

“  No,  no,  grandmamma,  of  course  he  didn’t!”  laughed 
Doris.  “  And  he  never  will  have  to  tell  me  anything  of 
that  sort,  even  when  we  are  old  married  people  and  have 
got  tired  of  each  other,  because  I  think  I  shall  always  have 
the  sense  to  find  it  out  for  myself.  We  have  begun  our 
married  life  on  common-sense  principles,  you  see,  and  it 
answers  very  well  so  far.  I  love  him  better  every  day,  and 
I  think  he  would  tell  you  something  of  the  same  sort  about 
me.  ” 

But  Mrs.  Edgcombe  gave  the  slender  white  fingers  that 
crept  round  her  own  no  responsive  pressure  —  she  was 
shocked,  scandalized.  This  calm  unenthusiastic  way  of 
looking  at  marriage  in  the  very  glow  of  the  honey -moon 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


31 


seemed  to  her  atheistic,  French,  diabolical.  Doris’s  calm 
demeanor  throughout  her  engagement  she  had  praised  and 
upheld  as  well  bred;  but  this  cold-blooded  acceptance  of  the 
possibility  of  her  getting  tired  of  her  husband  and  of  his 
getting  tired  of  her  was  carrying  good-breeding  a  little  too 
far. 

“  I  suppose  this  is  the  modern  fashionable  way  of  look¬ 
ing  at  marriage,  Doris?”  said  she  gravely.  “  At  any  rate, 
I  never  heard  anything  like  it  before!  It  sounds  very  clever 
and  very  shrewd  to  be  talking  already  about  the  time  when 
you  won’t  be  quite  so  young  and  so  handsome  and  lovely  as 
you  are  now;  and  of  course  I  know  quite  well  that  married 
people  can’t  be  so  enthusiastic  about  each  other  when  they 
have  grown  old  and  selfish  as  they  are  when  they  are  in 
their  bloom.  But  I  do  think  I  like  the  old  simple  fashion 
of  talk  better,  when  a  young  wife  used  to  think  her  love 
was  strong  enough  to  keep  them  always  young,  and  the 
young  husband,  even  if  he  knew  better,  at  least  said  noth¬ 
ing  about  it  and  tried  to  think  so  too.  ” 

Doris  felt  remorseful  for  her  frankness  when  she  saw  how 
deeply  her  words  had  pained  her  grandmother;  and  she 
said  quickly — 

“  It  is  only  a  new  way  of  talking,  granny,  dear;  we  feel 
just  the  same  as  you  and  grandpapa  did  when  you  were  first 
married;  only  just  now  it  is  the  fashion  to  be  cynical  and 
to  hide  one’s  feelings  away  as  if  one  were  ashamed  of 
them.  ” 

“  But  you  need  not  surely  try  to  hide  them  away  from 
me.  And  I  don’t  think  you  could,  my  dear,  if  they  were 
as  strong  as  you  say.  However,  I  suppose  I  must  be  con¬ 
tent  with  what  you  choose  to  show  me.  When  is  this  new- 
fashioned  husband  of  yours  coming  back;  or  does  it  depend 
on  what  attractions  he  can  find  in  Paris  whether  he  leaves 
you  to  spend  the  rest  of  your  honey- moon  alone  or  not?” 

“  It  is  not  quite  so  bad  as  that  yet,”  said  Doris,  laugh¬ 
ing.  “  He  will  be  back  to-morrow  in  time  for  dinner,  and 
he  will  bring  Charlie  Papillon  down  with  him,  I  hope.  ” 

But  Mrs.  Edgcombe’s  patience  was  exhausted. 

“  Charlie  Papillon!”  she  exclaimed,  sharply.  “  To  stay 
with  you  for  a  week  or  so  and  prevent  your  feeling  dull,  I 
suppose?  A  very  proper*  person  to  choose!  I  should 
think,  if  he  does  not  succeed  in  persuading  you  both  that 
the  duty  of  married  people  is  each  to  go  his  own  way  and 


32 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


Cno  attention  whatever  to  the  tie  which  binds  them,  no* 
y  could.  ” 

Poor  Doris  saw  her  mistake,  but  hardly  knew  what  to  say 
in  defense  of  her  bright  little  favorite  Charlie  which  would 
not  draw  down  a  fresh  storm  of  indignation  upon  that  easy¬ 
going  philosophers  head.  Her  fondness  for  him  had  long 
been  a  sore  point  with  old  Mrs.  Edgcombe,  whose  prin¬ 
ciples,  though  not  more  rigid  than  those  of  an  elderly  lady 
ought  to  be,  were  buckram  indeed  to  Charlie's.  She  had 
been  in  constant  dread  of  his  persuading  Doris  to  marry 
him,  and  she  was  now  quite  ready  to  consider  him  the  evil 
genius  hovering  about  the  young  household,  eager  to 
wreck  their  domestic  happiness  by  his  Mephistophelian  sug¬ 
gestions  and  influence.  She  had  not  thought,  however, 
though  she  had  come  down  with  a  word  of  warning  against 
him,  that  he  would  begin  the  work  of  ruin  so  soon. 

“  It  was  my  suggestion  that  David  should  bring  Charlie 
with  him,  not  for  a  week,  but  just  for  a  day  or  two,”  said 
Doris,  diffidently.  “  You  see,  grandmamma,  when  you 
and  I  came  down  here  every  summer,  and  had  the  house 
full  of  people,  the  boy  used  to  come  down  here  as  a  matter 
of  course  whenever  he  liked;  and  I  think  he  must  miss  his 
rowing  and  lawn-tennis  and  the  nice  people  we  used  to 
have  here.  It  seems  rather  selfish  of  David  and  me  to 
keep  the  dear  old  place  all  to  ourselves,  when  there  are 
half  a  dozen  unused  rooms  that  people  would  be  glad  to 
come  and  fill,  and  the  fruit  is  getting  ripe  for  nobody  to 
eat,  and  the  boats  are  falling  to  pieces  in  the  boat-house 
with  nobody  to  pull  them.  I  hate  to  go  into  the  billiard- 
room;  it  looks  so  desolate  now  there  are  no  cues  lying  about 
and  no  boys  quarreling  round  the  table.  I  don’t  even  en¬ 
joy  the  flowers  or  the  river  so  much  as  I  should  if  there 
were  a  lot  more  people  here  to  enjoy  them,  too.  I  think, 
and  David  thinks  too,  that,  when  one  finds  one's  self  in 
possession  of  nice  things  that  lots  of  other  people  would  like 
to  have,  it  is  wrong  not  to  spread  the  enjoyment  of  them  as 
far  as  one  can.  " 

“Well,  I  should  admire  your  unselfishness  more  if  I 
could  only  persuade  myself  that  it  was  genuine,  my  dear. 
But  I  do  think  that,  if  your  love  for  each  other  were  a  little 
stronger,  you  would  not  have  quite  so  much  to  spare  in 
general  philanthropy/' 

“  But  I  am  phiianthropieal  only  to  the  person*  I  like. 


DGftls's  FOMUKl. 


33 


?ou  know.  I  am  longing  to  get  poor  Hilda  Warren  away 
or  a  little  change  from  the  nasty,  hot  theater,  just  from 
Sunday  morning  to  Monday  afternoon.  That  is  not  unself¬ 
ish,  because  I  liKe  her  and  she  amuses  me.  ” 

This  was  another  unlucky  speech,  for  Mrs.  Edgcombe 
tolerated  the  girl  only  for  the  sake  of  her  old  acquaintance 
with  Hilda’s  mother,  who  was  still  alive,  but  who  was  liv¬ 
ing  uncomfortably  in  furnished  apartments  since  the 
death  of  her  husband.  That  event,  which  happened  just 
after  Hilda’s  final  return  from  school  in  Paris,  when  she 
was  seventeen,  had  changed  the  whole  course  of  the  girl’s 
life.  From  large  houses,  pleasant  lawns,  handsome  dresses, 
many  friends,  she  descended  at  once  to  two  rooms,  as  many 
gowns,  about  as  many  friends,  and  one  pot  of  flowers  in  the 
window  of  the  dingy  sitting-room.  Instead  of  an  introduc¬ 
tion  into  society,  balls,  concerts,  amusements  of  all  kinds, 
and  the  admirers  which  her  pretty  face  would  surely  have 
attracted,  she  plunged  at  once  into  an  existence  of  hard 
work  for  the  necessaries  of  life,  teaching  children  in  the 
morning,  studying  design  at  night,  with  tea  at  the  pastry 
cook’s  in  the  company  of  two  or  three  more  girl  students, 
as  her  only  recreation,  and  the  awkward  attentions  of  their 
ill-bred  brothers  as  the  only  homage  her  fair  face  could  now 
hope  to  attract.  An  ordinary  girl  would  have  sunk 
gradually  into  the  faded  and  industrious  hack-artist,  or  the 
well-mannered  but  affected  governess  who  will  never  allow 
her  employers  to  forget  that  their  position  is  nothing  com¬ 
pared  to  that  her  father  filled. 

Hilda  Warren  was  not  an  ordinary  girl;  and,  after  three 
or  four  years  of  dreary,  ill-paid  work,  she  gave  up  teaching 
and  went  on  the  stage,  not  making  herself  the  laughing¬ 
stock  of  the  critics  at  a  morning  performance  in  some  im¬ 
portant  and  difficult  part,  as  she  would  have  done  in  her 
ignorance  had  she  been  able  to  afford  that  incompetent  dis¬ 
play,  but  speaking  two  lines  as  a  servant  in  a  modern 
comedy — speaking  them  well  too,  so  that  a  good  many 
among  the  audience  could  hear  them.  For  more  than  two 
years  she  had  now  been  at  the  same  theater,  earning  a 
salary  that  she  could  almost  have  lived  on  had  she  been  by 
herself,  but  which  was  not  enough  to  support  her  mother 
upon  without  the  necessity  of  her  spending  most  of  her  day¬ 
light  hours  poring  over  her  old  work  of  designing. 

When  Doris  by  accident  found  out  this  girl,  whom  she 


34 


DORISES  FORTUHE. 


had  often  met  at  children’s  parties  when  they  both  lived  in 
the  same  circle,  she  was  struck  by  what  seemed  to  her  the 
heroism  of  the  young  actress  and  by  a  deep  sense  of  her  own 
inferiority  to  her.  Mrs.  Edgcombe,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  struck  with  astonishment  and  some  disgust  with 
Hilda’s  choice  of  a  profession,  and  looked  upon  the  girl, 
with  her  somewhat  masculine  freedom  of  speech  and  open 
preference  for  men’s  society,  as  a  most  undesirable  compan¬ 
ion  for  her  own  granddaughter,  whom  she  already  consid¬ 
ered  rather  too  independent  in  manners  and  in  mind. 
Doris  would  not  give  up  her  friend,  however,  especially  as 
Hilda’s  sensitive  pride  made  her  society  a  pleasure  not  too 
easily  got;  and  the  young  actress  had  been  among  the 
guests  at  her  wedding. 

Mrs.  Edgcombe  was  just  wise  enough  and  just  simple 
enough  to  look  upon  actresses  as  the  sworn  foes  of  newly 
wedded  wives,  and  the  introduction  of  one  of  them  into  the 
scarcely  launched  household  at  Fairleigh  was  just  the  one 
thing  wanted  to  make  Doris’s  willful  sacrifice  of  her  own 
happiness  complete. 

“  Ah!”  said  she,  when  Doris  had  remarked  that  Hilda 
would  amuse  her.  “  And  she  will  amuse  your  husband 
too,  I  dare  say!” 

“  Hilda  amuses  everybody,”  answered  Mrs.  Glyn,  with¬ 
out  taking  any  notice  of  the  suggestion  implied  by  her 
grandmother’s  tone.  “  When  she  and  Charlie  are  together, 
one  can  do  nothing  but  laugh.” 

‘lIs  Charlie  growing  fond  of  her?”  asked  Mrs.  Edg¬ 
combe,  less  stiffly,  scenting  a  romance. 

“  Oh,  you  know  Charlie  is  fond  of  every  pretty  girl  he 
meets!  I  think  Hilda  shares  his  very  best  affection  with 
about  two  others,  though.  He  is  really  very  much  at¬ 
tached  to  her.  Last  time  she  came  to  see  me  in  town  they 
were  inseparable.  ” 

“  Then  why  doesn’t  he  marry  her?” 

“  Why,  he  couldn’t  afford  to,  even  if  she  could!  You 
see,  if  they  were  to  marry,  she  would  be  spoiled  for  an  act¬ 
ress,  and  he  would  be  spoiled  for  a — butterfly.  Each  has 
a  mission,  which  each  fulfills  perfectly,  to  amuse  and  please 
everybody  they  meet.  ” 

“  But  isn’t  their  own  happiness  to  be  considered?” 

“  Yes;  and  that  is  just  what  we.  all  consider  best  when 
we  encourage  them  to  wander  about  at  their  own  sweet 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


35 


will,  and  get  everybody’s  affection  and  liking,  in  return  for 
being  bright  and  sweet  and  irresponsible  in  the  midst  of  us 
dull,  staid,  old  married  people.  I  don’t  myself  think  you 
consider  people’s  happiness  best  by  tying  them  up  in  twos 
just  at  the  age  when  they  most  enjoy  their  own  liberty.” 

Mrs.  Edgcombe  looked  hard  at  her  granddaughter;  but 
Doris  was  looking  so  sweet  and  bright  that  she  could 
scarcely  think  these  words  were  dictated  by  a  feeling  that 
she  had  given  up  her  own  liberty  too  soon.  Both  ladies 
began  to  feel  that  it  was  time  to  turn  the  talk  to  other  sub¬ 
jects,  since  the  chance  of  their  agreeing  upon  points  of 
domestic  interest  had  evidently  grown  slighter  than  ever 
since  the  marriage  of  the  younger  one;  and  before  long 
they  left  the  house  to  enjoy  the  early  evening  in  the  shade 
of  the  trees  on  the  lawn. 

The  elder  lady  returned  to  town  before  luncheon  the 
next  day,  unwilling  to  meet  either  the  grandson-in-law 
whose  departure  had  so  much  displeased  her,  or  his  evil 
genius,  Charlie  Papillon.  She  said  no  more  warning  words 
to  the  young  wife;  but  the  last  look  she  gave  her  as  she 
bade  her  good-bye  at  the  station  was  eloquent  with  anxiety 
and  foreboding  which  made  Doris  smile  when  she  was  alone. 

“  Poor  grandmamma!  She  won’t  believe  I  am  happy. 
As  if  a  woman  could  help  being  happy  with  David!” 


CHAPTER  IY. 

Doris  took  all  pains  in  her  room  that  afternoon  to  look 
her  very  best.  She  put  on  an  embroidered  India-muslin 
gown  of  palest  yellow  tint,  and  fastened  dark-red  roses  on 
her  breast  with  a  diamond  brooch.  She  was  too  handsome 
and  too  young  to  need  much  aid  from  dress,  and  she  dis¬ 
liked  elaborate  toilets  which  interfered  with  her  freedom  of 
movement.  But  the  simple  style  she  preferred  showed  off 
her  graceful  figure,  and,  as  the  flush  of  expectancy  rose  to 
her  cheeks  while  she  wandered  about  the  house,  restlessly 
unable  to  occupy  herself  with  anything  until  her  husband’s 
return,  she  looked  unspeakably  lonely. 

He  had  not  told  her,  in  the  letter  she  had  received  from 
him  that  day,  by  what  train  he  should  come,  but  had  said 
he  should  be  at  Eairleigh  as  early  as  possible;  so  that  she 
could  not  go  to  the  station  to  meet  him,  but  had  to  content 


u 


DORISES  FORTUKE. 


herself  with  listening  for  the  barking  of  the  dogs,  which 
would  surely  announce  their  masters  approach.  But  at 
the  last  he  came  upon  her  all  unexpectedly,  as  she  was  stand¬ 
ing  on  a  chair  in  the  path  outside  the  drawing-room  win¬ 
dow,  nailing  up  a  straggling  branch  of  a  climbing  rose-tree. 
She  sprung  down  at  the  sound  of  his  tread,  with  her  face 
sparkling  with  pleasure. 

“  It  has  seemed  such  a  long  time  to  me!  Has  it  seemed 
long  to  yon,  David?” 

“  Very  long,  my  darling — long  enough  for  you  to  grow 
much  handsomer  than  you  were  before  I  went  away.” 

“  Ah,  you  see  solitude  agrees  with  me!”  said  she,  saucily. 
€C  Where  is  Charlie?  Haven't  you  brought  him?” 

Charlie  had  lagged  discreetly  in  the  hall,  busy  disposing 
of  his  hat  and  his  umbrella;  and  he  now  came  sauntering 
through  the  drawing-room  and  stood  on  the  steps  at  the 
door  with  an  air  of  much  modest  diffidence. 

“  I  haven't  seen  you  since  you  have  attained  the  dignity 
of  wifehood,  Mrs.  Glyn,  and  you  look  so  much  more  com¬ 
manding  than  you  used  to  do  that  I  stand  quite  in  awe  of 
you.” 

“  Yes,  you  have.  You  saw  me  at  the  wedding.” 

“  Ah,  that  didn't  count!  Then  you  were  only  a  bride, 
and  looked  awfully  ashamed  of  yourself.  You  wouldn't 
have  me  stand  in  awe  of  a  bride!  Everybody  could  see  you 
were  sorry  you  had  not  chosen  me.  I  heard  people  remark 
upon  it,  and  say  how  much  they  pitied  Glyn.  So  did  I.'' 

“  If  you  have  quite  finished  all  the  absurd  and  tedious 
romances  you  have  been  carefully  making  up  all  the  way 
from  town,  you  may  come  down  those  steps  and  take  in 
this  chair  for  me,”  said  Doris,  gravely. 

“  I  will ;  and  then  I'll  make  love  to  you  wThile  David  gets 
himself  ready  for  dinner.  How  glad  you  must  be,  David, 
of  an  opportunity  for  a  wash  after  your  long  journey!”  said 
he,  solicitously. 

“  And  leave  the  destroyer  of  my  domestic  peace  in  full 
possession  of  the  field?”  asked  David,  in  his  sweet,  soft 
voice,  laughing. 

“  Yes;  I  will  fight  you  to-morrow  morning  before  break¬ 
fast,  if  you  like  to  get  up  early;  and  we'll  choose  pistols, 
because  I  know  I  can  shoot  better  than  you.  Or  we'll  set- 
tie  it  with  boat-hooks  out  in  the  creek,  if  you  prefer  nov- 


DORISES  FORTUNE.  3? 

elty!**  he  called  out  in  an  obliging  tone,  as  Glyn  disap¬ 
peared  in  the  house. 

“  And  now  that  the  hated  tyrant  is  no  more/*  continued 
Papillon  easily,  “  we  *11  go  and  sit  under  the  trees  and  flirt.** 
And  they  strolled  across  the  lawn  to  a  group  of  garden- 
seats  and  chairs  under  a  walnut-tree  from  which  they  could 
see  the  smooth  water  of  the  creek  and  watch  the  boats  and 
the  rapid  little  steam-launches  on  the  broader  stream  of  the 
river  outside.  Then,  when  they  had  leaned  for  a  few  min¬ 
utes  on  the  iron  railing  which  ran  along  the  top  of  the  bank 
at  the  edge  of  the  water,  and  Charlie  had  scolded  her  for 
spoiling  her  dress,  and  they  had  contradicted  each  other 
rudely  as  to  the  distance  from  where  they  stood  to  the  op¬ 
posite  bank  of  the  creek,  he  said  reflectively — 

“It  is  against  my  principles  to  raise  the  husbands  of 
pretty  and  charming  women  to  their  wives;  but  what  a  dear 
old  chap  David  is!** 

Doris  laughed,  very  much  pleased. 

“  He  really  is,  you  know;  I  don*t  wish  to  prejudice  you, 
but  I  must  repeat  it.  As  we  were  coming  down  in  the 
train  to-day,  talking  about  one  thing  and  another,  I 
couldn*t  help  thinking  that,  if  ever  a  girl  had  a  good  ex¬ 
cuse  for  throwing  herself  away,  it  was  you,  Doris.** 

“  Very  neatly  put.  I  am  sure  David  would  shed  tears 
of  gratitude  if  he  could  hear  you.** 

“  My  dear,  I  don*t  expect  gratitude.  What  disinterested 
good  comes  in  my  way  to  do  in  this  world  I  do,  leaving  it 
to  chance  to  get  paid  in  a  better  one.  But  to  hear  him 
prose  on  in  his  sweet  grave  way  about  the  people  he  knows, 
and  the  best  way  of  showing  them  kindness,  as  if  he  were  a 
benevolent  old  man  at  the  other  end  of  life,  instead  of  a 
handsome  young  man  at  this,  made  me  feel  quite  sentiment¬ 
ally  toward  him — it  did  really.** 

“He  is  awfully  kind-hearted,**  said  Doris,  her  mouth 
softening.  “  Whom  does  he  want  to  be  kind  to  now?** 
“Oh,  he  talked  about  Mrs.  Edgcombe*s  loneliness  now 
she  has  lost  you,  and  about  young  Hill*s  failure  on  the 
Stock  Exchange,  and  even  spoke  as  if  he  was  sorry  for  that 
silly  young  Melton,  who  was  so  rude  to  him  after  you  had 
accepted  him!** 

“  Oh,  what  has  become  of  the  boy?** 

“  He  is  in  ^ery  low  water,  I  believe.  Things  really  have 
gone  rather  hardly  with  the  boy  lately.  To  begin  with— 


38 


DORIS'S  FORTUNE. 


two  months  ago  he  thought  there  was  only  a  cousin  of  his 
between  him  and  a  large  property;  now  the  cousin  has  sud¬ 
denly  come  back  from  America  or  one  of  those  places  with 
a  wife  and  a  whole  boat-load  of  children!  Of  course  Melton 
might  have  expected  his  cousin  to  marry,  for  he  is  quite  a 
young  man;  but  still  it  was  inconsiderate  of  the  other  fel¬ 
low,  when  our  friend  Augustus  was  in  debt  too!  And  now 
his  mother  is  ill,  and  I  believe,  when  she  dies,  his  interest 
in  her  money  ceases;  it  is  an  annuity,  I  suppose,  or  an 
allowance  of  some  kind.” 

“  Then  why  doesn’t  he  do  something?”  asked  Doris  in¬ 
dignantly. 

“  What  is  he  to  do?  If  he  were  a  mechanic’s  son,  he 
might  drive  a  plow,  or  a  water-cart,  or  do  lots  of  things; 
but  there  is  very  little  a  gentleman  can  do  without  any 
training.” 

“  I  should  thing  Gussie  could  drive  a  water-cart.” 

“  No,  he  couldn’t,”  said  Charlie  impatiently.  “  Now 
how  should  I  look  driving  a  water-cart?” 

“  Well,  then,  he  might  cut  pencils  and  rule  paper  in  an 
office  like  you.” 

“  Oh,  you  must  have  interest  to  get  into  a  Government 
office!  Even  your  Charlie  didn’t  get  there  by  the  unaided 
light  of  his  natural  genius.  David  spoke  of  introducing 
him  to  old  Bramwell;  he  might  do  something  for  him,  if 
Melton  would  go  into  the  City.” 

“  He  ought  to  be  glad  to  go  anywhere,  instead  of  wasting 
his  time,”  said  Doris  severely.  “Mrs.  Bramwell  is  going 
to  give  a  garden-party;  I’ll  get  her  to  send  Gussie  an  in¬ 
vitation.  ” 

“  Oh,  don’t  let  her  forget  me  too!  I  like  Mrs.  Bram- 
well’s  garden-parties,  I  know  a  path  in  her  garden  that 
everybody  but  me  thinks  leads  to  nowhere;  but  there  is  a 
seat  at  the  end  close  to  a  sweet-brier  b.usli  and  right  under 
a  wall  covered  with  apricots.  I’ll  take  you  there,  and  we’ll 
stay  there  all  the  afternoon,  and —  Go  away,  David !  I 
don’t  know  where  you  have  been  brought  up;  you  might 
know  it  is  not  manners  to  come  and  interrupt.  Go  away, 
I  say;  we’ll  talk  to  you  presently.”  Then,  turning  his 
back  upon  his  host,  who  had  sauntered  up  to  them  just  as 
the  dinner-gong  sounded,  he  continued  fco  Doris,  more 
affectionately  than  ever,  “  And  you  shall  tell  me  all  your 


Doris's  fortune. 


39 


troubles,  just  as  you  have  been  doing  now;  and  then  I'll 
comfort  you,  and  we’ll  be  so  happy.  '' 

“ 1  shall  really  have  to  put  you  into  the  creek,  Charlie," 
said  David. 

“  Oh,  not  till  after  dinner!"  answered  Papillon,  with 
gentle  remonstrance,  as  he  gave  his  arm  to  Doris,  and  they 
all  went  in-doors. 

The  three  had  a  cozy  little  dinner  in  the  great  room 
which  would  hold  thirty;  and  at  the  close  of  a  very  happy 
evening  Papillon  found  himself  installed  for  the  first  time 
in  one  of  the  best  bedrooms.’  In  the  old  days,  when  he  had 
been  one  of  the  crowd  of  visitors  whom  Mrs.  Edgcombe  and 
her  granddaughter  entertained  all  through  the  summer,  he 
had  had,  as  an  insignificant  bachelor,  to  content  himself 
with  all  sorts  of  impromptu  couches  very  near  the  roof. 
He  leaned  out  of  window,  rejoicing  in  his  promotion,  and 
smoked  a  cigar  in  the  moonlight. 

Presently  he  heard  footsteps,  softly  descending  the  stairs, 
and  the  stealthy  unfastening  of  the  drawing-room  win¬ 
dow  below  him;  and  then  he  saw  that  the  midnight  dis¬ 
turbers  of  his  peace  were  his  host  and  hostess,  who  had 
stolen  out  for  just  one  more  stroll  in  the  sweet  summer 
night  air.  They  sauntered  together  up  the  path  on  the 
left-hand  side  of  the  lawn,  and  disappeared  behind  the 
shrubs  and  trees  at  the  end.  He  waited  at  the  window 
until  they  reappeared  from  among  the  tall  hedges  of  yew 
and  guelder-roses,  and  watched  them  as  they  slowly  returned 
toward  the  house,  feeling  quite  poetical.  They  were  such  an 
ideal  pair.  He  was  so  tall  and  well  built  and  moved  so 
easily;  she  was  a  woman  of  ideal  beauty  of  face  and  form. 
Half-way  down  the  path  the  shawl  she  had  thrown  round 
her  slipped  from  her  head,  and  her  husband  stopped  to 
draw  it  again  into  its  place  so  tenderly  that  Papillon  turned 
away  his  head,  excited  to  enthusiasm  and  something  like 
worship. 

"  Wl  lere  will  this  end?"  thought  the  philosopher  pres¬ 
ently.  “  They  can't  go  on  like  that  in  this  groveling 
wicked  old  world  of  ours.  They  are  too  pure,  too  perfect. 
They'll  die  and  slide  off  to  heaven  just  as  they  are,  without 
any  change  at  all — except  just  the  wings." 


40 


doris’s  fortune. 


CHAPTER  V. 

It  was  in  the  very  last  days  of  July  that  Mrs.  BramwelFs 
garden-party  came  off.  The  weather  was  perfect,  the 
grounds,  which  were  next  to  Fairleigh,  were  among  the 
most  beautiful  on  that  part  of  the  Thames,  and  all  the 
arrangements  made  for  that  particularly  dull  form  of  en¬ 
tertainment  were  complete.  There  was  lawn-tennis  for  the 
energetic,  there  were  little  tents  and  arbors  with  seats  for 
the  lazy,  there  were  boats,  there  was  a  band,  and  there 
were  two  marquees  for  refreshments. 

Papillon  was  there.  Having  instantly  secured  an  intro¬ 
duction  to  the  prettiest  girl  on  the  ground,  and  having 
taken  her  down  ids  favorite  paths  and  satisfied  himself  that 
her  conversational  merit  was  not  equal  to  her  appearance, 
he  had  generously  given  way  to  a  rival  and  taken  himself 
off  in  search  of  metal  more  attractive,  carefully  avoiding 
his  hostess,  lest  she  should  pounce  upon  him  and  make  him 
to  do  duty  at  the  side  of  some  elderly  young  lady  whose  ap- 

{>earance  was  not  equal  to  her  conversational  merit.  Char- 
ie  was  not  a  useful  young  man;  he  utterly  declined  to  be¬ 
stow  his  devoted  but  valueless  attentions  upon  any  ladies 
but  those  most  sought  after. 

Mrs.  Hodson  was  there,  attracting  *  more  attention  and 
even  more  admiration  than  the  far  lovelier  and  younger 
Mrs.  Glyn.  She  wore  a  dress  of  some  light  silk  covered 
with  lace,  and  a  daring  hat  trimmed  with  long  white  feath¬ 
ers,  and  exquisitely  made  artificial  flowers.  She  carried  a 
sunshade,  the  lace  on  which  was  worth  more  than  all  the 
lace  Doris  had  ever  possessed,  mounted  upon  an  ivory 
handle  on  which  her  monogram  was  carved  among  delicate 
trails  of  ivy  and  sprays  of  lilies.  Her  husband  was  not 
with  her;  he  would  come  by  and  by,  she  said,  on  his  return 
from  the  city. 

“  He  is  such  a  slave  to  that  horrid  city/*  she  said,  with 
a  pretty  frown  of  petulance,  to  Mrs.  Bramwell. 

And  her  hostess  condoled  with  her  on  the  fearful  fate  of 
having  a  husband  who  was  a  slave  to  the  city;  but  the 
matrons  near,  whose  gowns  had  not  come  from  Paris,  and 
whose  monograms  were  not  carved  on  anything,  smiled 


doris's  fortune. 


41 


lightly  to  each  other  and  wondered  how  the  poor  man  ever 
found  time  to  come  home  at  all  when  he  had  such  extrava¬ 
gance  as  that  to  support.  That  a  woman  of  thirty-five  or 
more — even  these  severe  judges  could  not  add  to  her  age, 
she  looked  so  much  younger — should  dress  like  a  duchess 
and  take  the  attention  of  the  young  men  away  from  the 
girls,  their  daughters,  instead  of  submitting  to  be  placed 
on  the  shelf,  was  a  scandalous  thing.  And  what  were  Mrs. 
Hodson 's  own  daughters  doing  while  their  mother  was  en¬ 
joying  herself  and  flirting  like  a  young  girl? 

But  these  indignant  dowagers  overshot  the  mark  when 
they  passed  this  censure  upon  Mrs.  Hodson's  flirtations. 
She  certainly  did  flirt;  but  it  was  with  the  easy  assurance 
of  the  matured  beauty,  and  not  with  the  shy  tentative 
coquetries  of  the  young  girl.  She  attracted  more  admira¬ 
tion,  she  got  more  attention  than  the  fairest  of  the  girls 
whose  cause  the  elder  ladies  took  up  so  hotly;  but  she  could 
scarcely  be  said  to  have  robbed  them  of  homage  which 
would  have  fallen  to  their  share  if  she  had  not  been  there. 
For  pretty  and  bright  girls  will  get  their  meed  of  soft 
words  and  tender  looks,  and  plain  or  dull  ones  such  share 
of  attention  as  must  always  suffice  them  in  a  throng, 
whatever  the  charms  of  the  sirens  who  enter  the  lists  with 
them  may  be.  But  much-maligned  Mrs.  Hodson,  who  bore 
the  sarcasms  of  her  compeers  with  great  equanimity,  ful¬ 
filled  a  social  function  to  which  the  loveliest  of  debutantes 
would  have  been  unequal;  her  brilliant  presence  and  sunny 
manner  gave  life  to  the  whole  assembly,  she  broke  up  the 
knots  of  listless  young  men  who  would  have  gathered  round 
the  refreshment-tents  and  remained  there,  she  paired  off 
chatty  old  gentlemen  with  tattling  old  ladies,  she  spied  out 
neglected  girls  and  provided  them  with  partners  from  the 
ranks  of  her  own  body-guard  of  submissive  youths,  she 
flitted  about  over  the  lawns  and  among  the  paths,  pretty, 
gracious,  and  charming,  insuring  the  success  of  the  affair  by 
taking  half  the  burden  of  entertainment  upon  her  fair 
plump  shoulders,  and  earning  the  deep  gratitude  of  Mrs.  ' 
Bramwell,  who  had  indeed  reckoned  upon  her  valuable  aid 
at  the  outset  of  the  undertaking.  Dangerous  Mrs.  Hodson 
might  be,  as  less  brilliant  women  did  not  scruple  to  call 
her;  but  her  danger  was  not  for  the  multitude,  not  in  a 
throng. 

Doris,  in  satteen  of  pale  tints  of  oink  and  gray,  took  ad' 


42 


DOKIS'S  FOKTUNE. 


1 


miration  less  by  storm  but  more  surely;  face,  figure,  dress, 
and  movement  satisfied  every  demand  of  the  most  critical 
taste.  She  had  obtained  invitations  for  Hilda  Warren, 
whose  slight  figure  was  conspicuous  by  the  quaint  simplicity 
of  her  dress,  and  for  Gussie  Melton,  a  tall,  broad-shoul¬ 
dered,  good-looking  young  man  with  a  single  eyeglass  and 
a  vacuous  expression,  who  lounged  with  a  kindred  spirit 
just  outside  one  of  the  refreshment-marquees,  in  a  listless 
and  sulky  dissatisfaction  with  the  entertainment  provided 
for  him;  he  had  failed  in  an  endeavor  to  get  a  tete-a-tete 
with  Mrs.  Glyn,  but  he  could  not  keep  his  eyes  from  wan¬ 
dering  in  her  direction. 

Mrs.  Hod  son  who  saw  everybody,  saw  him,  had  him  in¬ 
troduced  to  her,  swept  him  off  in  her  train,  and  he  pres¬ 
ently  had  the  satisfaction  of  finding  himself  in  a  group  of 
which  Doris  was  a  member.  She  was  talking  to  another 
lady  about  a  horse-show  at  which  they  had  both  been  pres¬ 
ent. 

44  Did  you  get  the  pair  of  chestnuts  you  took  such  a  fancy 
to,  Mrs.  Glyn?** 

44  No.  I  haven* t  got  over  the  disappointment  yet.  David 
forgot  all  about  it  till  it  was  too  late,  and  somebody  else 
had  snapped  them  up.** 

44  If  you  know  who  bought  them  and  would  trust  me 
with  the  matter,  I  would  see  if  it  is  not  possible  to  get 
them  yet,  Mrs.  Glyn,**  said  young  Melton,  interposing 
eagerly. 

44  Oh,  thank  you!  It  is  very  kind  of  you;  but  I  really 
don*t  know  who  did  buy  them,  and  I  have  resigned  myself 
'  by  this  time  to  doing  without  them!** 

44  But  I  have  no  doubt  I  could  find  out  who  the  buyer 
was,  and  I  should  be  delighted,**  he  persisted  with  rather 
too  much  empressement . 

Doris  cut  him  short. 

44  You  must  not  tempt  me,  Mr.  Melton.  It  is  an  ex¬ 
travagance  I  am  glad  to  have  been  saved  from.  ” 

It  was  the  verv  mildest  of  snubs,  delivered  with  a  smile 

jj  y 

that  had  no  unkind  ness  in  it;  but  Melton  drew  back  sharply, 
as  if  stabbed,  and  instantly  devoted  elaborate  attention  to 
Mrs.  Hodson. 

It  was  later  in  the  afternoon  when  Mr.  Bramwell  sud¬ 
denly  remembered  a  promise  she  had  made  to  send  for  a 
little  boy,  the  son  of  a  young  mother  too  recently  widowed 


Doris's  fortune.  43 

to  be  present  herself  at  any  assembly  of  pleasure,  “  to  see 
th£  pretty  ladies  and  hear  the  music.  " 

“  Shall  I  go  and  fetch  him,  Mrs.  Bramwell?"  asked 
Doris,  with  whom  little  AVillie  Hillier  was  a  favorite. 

“  No,  we  can't  spare  you,  Doris;  I  must  find  some  good- 
natured  person  who  won't  be  missed." 

“  But  I  won't  be  long;  I  should  like  to  go.  He  lives  up 
by  the  lock,  doesn’t  he?  Well,  I  will  get  somebody  to  row 
me  upland  combine  business  with  pleasure.  AYho  will 
row  me  up  to  the  lock?" 

Half  a  dozen  young  fellows  of  all  degrees  of  incom- 


bank.  David  interfered. 

“  I  can't  let  you  go  with  any  one  who  doesn't  know  the 
river  well,  Doris.  The  light  is  going,  and  you  will  have  to 
pass  the  wear.  Let  me  see — who  is  the  best  waterman 
here?  Ah,  young  Melton  knows  the  river,  doesn't  he?" 

Of  all  the  men  who  had  heard  pretty  Mrs.  Glyn's  speech, 
he  alone  had  not  stirred  in  answer  to  her  appeal.  Of  course 
her  husband  had  not  noticed  this  and  paid  no  attention  to 
her  murmured  objection.  Melton  himself  caught  her  low 
remonstrance,  however,  and,  when  David  stepped  up  to 
him  and  said,  “  You  will  take  care  of  her,  won't  you?"  he 
said,  stiffly: 

“  Er-perhaps-er — Mrs.  Glyn  may  not  care  to  avail  her¬ 
self  of  my  services. " 

“  Don't  you  want  to  go,  then?"  asked  David,  simply. 

“  Of  course — I  should  be  delighted.  I  am  only  afraid 
Mrs.  Glyn  may  have  some  objection." 

“  Nonsense!"  said  David,  quietly.  “  I  have  an  objection 
to  her  being  drowned,  and  I  know  you  can  manage  a  boat. " 

Melton  was  making  his  way  to  the  boats  with  stiff  un¬ 
graciousness,  and  languidly  unbuttoning  the  one  glove  he 
had  on,  when  Doris  made  a  movement  toward  one  of  the 
other  men,  as  if  to  secure  his  services.  With  sudden  eager¬ 
ness  Melton  sprung  forward,  and  offered  his  hand  to  help 
her  into  the  boat  David  had  chosen  from  the  rest,  as  look¬ 
ing  the  most  comfortable  and  the  safest.  Two  or  three 
rashly  officious  hands  from  among  the  group  on  the  bank 
unshipped  the  rudder  in  giving  her  the  ropes,  splashed  her 
dress  in  helping  to  push  off  the  boat,  and  made  their  pres, 
ence  felt  in  similar  ways.  She  thanked  them  good-hu- 


44 


Doris’s  fortune. 


moredly,  but  felt  glad  when  the  boat  was  fairly  under  way 
and  she  was  out  of  reach  of  their  zealous  hands. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

“  Keep  to  the  right,  if  you  please,  as  close  under  the 
bank  as  you  can,”  said  Melton  briefly  to  Doris,  as  he  bent 
sulkily  over  the  sculls. 

She  pulled  the  right  rope  obediently,  and,  as  the  boat 
swam  smoothly  through  the  water,  she  was  touched  with 
compassion  for  her  ferryman  for  having  to  row  in  such  in¬ 
appropriate  dress.  She  quite  forgave  him  for  looking  so 
terribly  cross. 

“  I  am  sorry  to  have  made  a  martyr  of  you,  Mr.  Melton. 
It  must  be  very  uncomfortable  to  row  in  that  costume,  and 
hard  work  too  against  the  stream.  ’  ’ 

“It  is  not  at  all  hard,”  said  he  stiffly,  giving  the  sculls 
a  long  strong  pull  that  made  the  boat  rush  through  the 
water,  to  show  her  that  this  was  child’s  play  to  him. 
“  Only  I  can’t  think  what  made  Glyn  choose  an  old  tub 
like  this.  I  could  have  got  you  to  the  lock  in  about  a  quar¬ 
ter  of  the  time  in  a  better  boat,” 

“  You  must  excuse  a  husband’s  caution.  David  thought 
this  one  looked  safe.” 

“  It  is  a  great  mistake  to  suppose  a  thing  is  safe  because 
it  is  clumsy.  You  have  only  got  to  lurch  over  to  one  side 
or  the  other  in  this  thing,  and  over  it  goes.” 

He  gave  an  illustrative  jerk  to  the  left,  but  with  no 
worse  result  than  to  make  the  boat  roll. 

“Yes?  Well,  don’t  doit,  please,  till  you  have  landed 
me.” 

“  You  need  not  be  afraid.  I  could  sit  on  the  edge  of  this 
tub  without  upsetting  it;  it  all  depends  on  how  it  is  done.” 

“  Yes?  Well,  I  think  I’d  rather  row  on  quietly  without 
any  conjuring  tricks,  please.” 

“  I  was  not  going  to  do  it,”  said  he  coldly.  “  I  only 
wished  to  show  you  that  safety  in  any  boat  depends  upon 
the  person  in  it.  You  should  never  get  into  a  boat  unless 
you  have  confidence  in  the  man  in  charge  of  it.” 

“  Why,  so  I  have!  David  could  not  have  shown  more 
trust  in  your  powers  than  by  choosing  you  out  from  among 
all  those  boys  on  the  lawn — in  spite  Of  your  reluctance.” 


DORIS'S  FORTUNE. 


45 


“  It  was  most  flattering,  I  am  sure,  to  be  chosen  by 
David  as — a  safe  person,”  said  Melton,  angrily. 

Doris  could  not  help  beirs'  amused  by  the  young  fellow's 
petulance.  She  said  not!  g,  but  remained  intent  on  her 
steering. 

“As  for  my  reluctance,  as  you  call  it,”  he  went  on 
presently,  in  a  sulky  tone,  “  a  man  does  not  care  to  run 
the  risk  of  another  snub  when  he  has  already  been  sat 
upon  once  in  the  afternoon  for  obtruding  the  offer  of  his 
services.  ” 

“  I  did  not  wish  to  snub  you  or  sit  upon  you  at  all.  You 
put  quite  an  absurd  meaning  upon  my  wish  to  save  you 
useless  trouble.  If  I  had  wanted  the  horses  badly,  David 
— my  husband — would  have  got  them  for  me.” 

“  Please  remember  that  it  was  not  until  you  complained 
of  vour  husband's  not  getting  them  for  you  that  I  offered 
to  do  so.  It  was  enough  for  me  that  you  wanted  them;  I 
did  not  wait  to  ask  whether  you  wanted  them  badly,  ”  said 
he,  quickly,  in  a  low  voice. 

Doris  gave  him  a  long  cold  look,  but  he  would  not  meet  it. 

“  You  are  very  kind,”  said  she  at  length,  icily.  “  But 
you  are  mistaken  if  you  think  I  shall  ever  have  occasion  to 
prefer  your  services  to  my  husband's.” 

“  Not  yet,  I  dare  say,”  said  Melton,  his  temper  rising, 
his  stroke  getting  unsteady,  his  eyes  shiftily  avoiding  hers. 
“I  don't  suppose  you  are  tired  of  worshiping  your  saint 
yet.  Poor  weak  creatures  who  have  affections  and  passions 
must  seem  a  very  poor  lot  compared  to  such  a — such  a  sub¬ 
lime  saint.  But  when  his  perfection  begins  to  pall,  when 
you  begin  to  get  a  little  tired  of  his  seraphic  smile  and  his 
calm  superiority  to  everybody  else,  perhaps  you  won't  look 
upon  other  people  and  other  people's  offers  of  service  quite 
so  scornfully.” 

“  Gussie,”  said  Doris,  in  a  low  voice,  but  very  sternly, 
“  do  you  quite  understand  what  you  are  saying?  Do  you 
remember  whom  you  are  saying  it  to?  Do  you  know,  you 
foolish  boy,  that  you  are  talking  to  a  wife  about  her  hus¬ 
band?” 

“  And  do  you  know,”  said  Gussie  hotly,  raising  his  eyes 
at  last,  not  placidly  vacuous  now,  but  flashing  with  passion 
to  her  face,  “  that  you  are  talking  to  a  man,  not  a  boy, 
and  that  you  have  made  a  great  mistake  in  treating  me  as  if 
I  was  fourteen,  and  that  I  mean  to  prove  it  to  you?” 


46 


DOBIS'S  FOBTUKE. 


“You  have  already  proved  to  me  that  I  have  made  a 
great  mistake  about  you.  I  knew  you  were  headstrong  and 
rash  and  violent;  but  I  d7’1  not  know  that  you  were 
wicked.  '  ' 

“  Well,  I  am  wicked!"  said  Melton,  rather  soothed  for 
the  moment.  “  You  have  treated  me  badly,  and,  married 
or  unmarried,  I  shall  just  tell  you  what  I  think  of  you/' 

“  When — how  have  I  treated  you  badly?  You  are  talking 
at  random.  " 

“  I  am  talking  the  calm  sober  truth,"  said  he,  violently 
excited.  “  You  have  played  with  me  and  encouraged  me 
and  amused  yourself  with  me,  and  made  me  think  you  were 
going  to  have  me,  and  then  thrown  me  over  for  a  man 
whom  you  didn't  care  much  about  and  who  didn't  care 
much  about  you.  And  then  you  say  you  are  not  a  coquette. 
Didn't  you  coquette  with  me  at  Ambleside?  Can  you  pre¬ 
tend  you  didn't  know  I  was  in  love  with  you,  when  I  tried 
to  propose  to  you  eveiy  day?" 

6  6  Which  is  a  thing  no  man  seriously  in  love  with  a  girl 
could  do.  Tell  me — did  any  of  the  people  up  there — any 
of  the  girls,  for  instance  —who  saw  your  very  frank  love- 
making  and  the  way  I  received  it,  think  that  you  were  se¬ 
riously  encouraged?" 

“  I  don't  know — at  least — no,  I  don't  think  they  did. 
But  they  knew  I  was  in  earnest;  and,  when  they  told  me 
you  would  never  marry  me,  Iran  away — I  mean,  I  wouldn't 
stay  there — to  be  made  a  fool  of. " 

6 4  You  see  you  are  obliged  to  own  that  nobody  but  you 
saw  any  of  this  heartless  coquetry  in  the  way  I  treated  you. 
I  was  perfectly  open  and  frank  in  my  manner  to  you  from 
the  first.  At  the  risk  of  offending  you  again,  I  must  tell 
you  that  no  gentleman  who  had  not  just  left  school  ever  be¬ 
fore  bestowed  his  attentions  on  me  in  quite  such  a  headlong 
fashion.  The  novelty  of  it  pleased -me — pleased  us  all,  in 
fact.  We  all  spoiled  you,  and  excused  your  very  eccentric 
manners,  feeling  sure  they  would  tone  down  into  something 
more  conventional  by  and  by.  Besides,  we  liked  you;  I 
especially  found  you  a  charming  companion;  you  were  so 
ready  to  laugh  when  one  was  in  high  spirits,  to  be  kind 
when  one  was  dull;  you  got  so  much  excited  about  any 
beautiful  scene  or  lovely  music;  you  were  so  easily  inter¬ 
ested.  Then  you  were  always  kind  and  thoughtful  for — 
your  companions,  and  there  was  something  in  the  way  in 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


47 


which  you  used  to  take  care  of — them,  and  save  them 
trouble,  even  when  perhaps  they  had  been  snubbing  you, 
and,  in  a  light-hearted  fashion,  treating  you  rather  un¬ 
fairly,  which  made  me  fall  quite  naturally  into  the  mistake 
of  thinking  that,  with  all  your  faults  of  manner,  you  were 
a  gentleman.  ” 

Doris  felt  a  pang  of  compunction  when  she  felt  the  boat 
quiver  from  the  start  he  gave  at  these  last  severe  words. 

“  It  was  not  a  mistake,”  said  he  huskily.  “  That  is  the 
cruelest  thing  you  could  say  to  me.^ 

“  I  should  not  have  said  so  till  to-day,”  said  Doris. 

“  You  are  heartless,  whatever  you  may  say!”  he  broke 
out  passionately,  resting  on  his  sculls  and  forcing  her  by 
his  vehemence  to  raise  her  eyes  to  his  heated  face.  “  You 
couldn’t  pick  even  a  boy’s  love  to  pieces  in  that  cold  way  if 
you  were  not;  and  a  man  of  two-and -twenty  is  not  a  boy. 
And  it  is  nonsense  to  say  my  love  wasn’t  worth  anything 
because  I  showed  it;  and  I  don’t  believe  those  calm  people 
who  make  you  think  they  have  such  a  lot  of  feeling  shut 
up  could  shut  it  up  if  they  felt  as  much  as  I  do.  And,  if  I  * 
were  sixty-two,  instead  of  twenty-two,  I  should  show  it  just 
the  same.” 

“  You  will  have  shown  it  for  a  good  many  people  by  the 
time  you  are  sixty-two,  I  think,  Gussie,”  said  Doiis,  gen¬ 
tly.  “  You  seem  to  forget  that,  before  you  showed  it  for 
me,  you  showed  it  in  exactly  the  same  degree  for  Marion 
Bryant.  Yet  I  am  sure  that,  if  she  were  to  overwhelm  you 
with  passionate  reproaches,  you  would  think  them  quite 
uncalled  for.” 

“  That  was  a  different  thing!  That  was  a  boy’s  affec¬ 
tion,  if  you  like.  Marion  is  a  dear,  good  girl,  and  I’m  aw¬ 
fully  fond  of  her.  But  she  is  years  and  years  older  than  I 
am,  and  she  never  thought  and  never  could  have  thought, 
that  I  was  really  in  love  with  her.  But  you,”  said  he,  his 
tone  suddenly  softening  as  he  looked  at  her,  while  she 
leaned  tack  with  her  handsome  face  grave  with  thought  and 
anxiety,  her  graceful  figure  set  off  by  her  dainty  dress -- 
“  you  are  the  most  beautiful  woman  I  ever  saw.  I  know 
that,  if  I  were  to  go  all  over  the  world,  I  should  never  meet 
anybody  lovelier  or  sweeter  or  cleverer.  So  of  course  I 
loved  you;  and  I  always  shall  love  you,  because  I  shall 
never  find  any  one  more  beautiful  or  more  charming.  And, 
though  you  can  never  be  anything  to  me  now,  I  shall  ah 


48 


BORISES  FORTUNE. 


ways  love  you  just  as  much,  and  nothing  you  can  say  will 
prevent  me,”  and  he  went  on  resolutely  with  his  rowing. 

The  stream  was  very  strong  at  this  point,  and  in  the  de¬ 
lay  caused  by  this  harangue,  which  he  had  delivered  resting 
on  his  sculls,  they  had  drifted  hack  some  distance.  He 
started  again  with  a  stronger  stroke,  to  make  up  for  lost 
time,  and  to  show  Doris,  by  devoting  himself  entirely  to  his 
work,  that  he  considered  his  words  unanswerable.  He  felt 
that  there  was  something  rather  fine  about  the  self-abnega- 
tory  tone  of  the  end  of  his  speech  which  must  impress 
Doris. 

But,  when  she  acquiesced  in  this  way  of  closing  the  sub¬ 
ject  by  saying,  in  a  much  relieved  and  cheerful  tone: 

“  Very  well,  then  let  us  hear  no  more  about  it,”  he  was 
instantly  impelled  to  reopen  it. 

“  You  know,  I  did  not  want  your  money,  Doris,  as  I  was 
told  you  thought  I  did.  I  never  thought  about  your  money 
at  Ambleside;  I  thought  only  about  you,  and  I  should  have 
liked  you  just  as  much  if  you  had  had  nothing  at  all.  But 
the  Bryants  told  me,  among  other  nice  things,  that  you 
were  too  rich  to  think  of  me,  that  you  would  think  I  only 
wanted  your  money.  So  I  went  away  from  Ambleside,  and 
didn't  even  say  good-bye  to  you.  And  when  I  met  you 
again  in  London,  I  tried  to  make  you  think  I  was  better  off 
than  I  was,  so  that  you  might  not  think  I  was  mercenary." 

“  I  was  told  you  were  deeply  in  debt." 

“Well,  it  wasn't  true.  I  never  have  been  deeply  in 
debt.  People  always  exaggerate  a  young  man's  debts.  I'm 
not  extravagant,  and,  besides,  I  couldn't  get  credit  if  I 
were,  since  my  cousin's  marriage.  I  have  been  in  low  water 
lately,  but  through  quite  another  cause; ‘and  it  was  not 
until  after  you  were  engaged  to  Glyn.  So  now,  you  see, 
you  have  been  too  hard  upon  me,  Doris;  my  motives  were 
not  a  bit  more  interested  than  those  of  Glyn  himself." 

She  began  unconsciously  to  look  rather  sorry  for  him. 
She  was  more  touched  by  the  suggestion  of  his  difficulties 
than  by  the  account  of  his  love.  She  had  never  had  any 
money- troubles,  but  she  knew  they  must  be  very  hard  to 
bear;  and  she  thought  they  must  be  especially  hard  for  a 
young  man  of  the  idle  class.  Melton  saw  her  beautiful 
face  soften,  and  he  added,  in  a  very  low  voice: 

“  So  you  see,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  lies  and  slanders 
of  some  wretched  busybodies,  who  didn't  do  themselves  any 


DORISES  FORTUNE.  49 

good  by  it,  we  might  have  married  each  other  and  been 
perfectly  happy.  ” 

Doris  started,  and  raised  herself  from  her  reclining  atti¬ 
tude  in  a  tumult  of  indignation  at  the  lad^s  presumption. 

“  Is  it  possible?”  she  asked,  m  a  very  quiet  voice,  “  that 
you  imagine  I  could  in  any  conceivable  train  of  circum¬ 
stances  have  married  you?” 

“  Why  not?”  said  Melton,  his  face  growing  crimson  at 
her  cutting  tone.  “  You  have  told  me  I  am  a  cad,  I  know; 
but  you  said  you  did  not  find  it  out  till  to-day.  If  you 
fell  into  the  mistake  of  thinking  me  enough  like  a  gentle¬ 
man  to  flirt  with,  you  might,  I  should  think,  have  fallen 
into  the  mistake  of  thinking  me  enough  like  a  gentleman 
to  marry.  ” 

“  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  that  question.  If  you  had 
been  a  duke,  or  if  you  had  been  a  dust-man,  it  would  have 
made  no  difference,  and  your  wrongs  against  David  and 
your  unknown  slanderers  are  quite  imaginary.  For  I 
should  never,  in  any  case,  have  trusted  my  happiness  to  the 
keeping  of  a  man  younger  than  myself,  quite  unworthy  to 
be  the  ruler  of  my  conduct  as  he  is  incapable  of  guiding 
his  own.” 

Melton  made  no  answer;  he  was  rowing  hard  and  fast, 
and  he  listened  to  her  bitter  words  with  teeth  firmly  set 
and  a  lowering  expression  of  face.  He  did  not  look  at  her; 
but  he  heard,  as  the  boat  shot  faster  and  faster  through  the 
water,  the  rushing  sound  of  the  wear  which  they  were  near¬ 
ing  in  the  twilight.  Suddenly  he  raised  his  head  and  said, 
in  a  harsh  voice: 

“So  you  would  never  have  married  me — never  have 
trusted  me,  I  suppose?” 

Doris  did  not  answer.  She  sat  quite  still,  with  the  rud¬ 
der-lines  firmly  in  her  hands;  but  her  mind  was  so  dis¬ 
turbed  by  the  conversation  of  the  last  few  minues  that  she 
lost  ail  consciousness  for  the  moment  of  the  direction  the 
boat  was  taking,  and  was  only  roused  into  a  sense  of  what 
was  passing  round  her  by  the  roar  of  the  water  at  the  wear. 
She  looked  ahead,  and  was  startled  to  find  that  they  had 
got  right  out  of  their  proper  course  and  were  making 
straight  for  the  row  of  tall  posts  that  stood  out  black 
against  the  twilight  gray  of  the  water  and  the  banks  be¬ 
yond. 


50 


doris’s  fortune. 


«  6 


Back  water — quick  !”  she  called  out,  as  she  pulled  the 
right-hand  rope  with  all  her  might. 

He  rowed  on  without  seeming  to  hear  her.  A  few  more 
strokes,  and  it  would  be  too  late;  the  frail  boat  would  be 
crushed  against  the  posts  or  sucked  down  in  the  rushing 
waters  of  the  wear. 

“  Gussie,  are  you  mad?  Back  water,  or  we  shall  be  over 
the  wear!”  she  cried. 

And  as  she  spoke,  she  saw,  with  horror  that  chilled  her 
and  caught  her  breath,  that  he  knew,  that  he  was  possessed 
with  a  mad  purpose,  that  he  meant  to  throw  away  her  life 
with  his  own.  Without  a  cry,  she  leaped  from  her  seat, 
and  slipping  on  to  her  knees  in  front  of  him,  seized  the 
sculls,  and,  by  the  force  of  the  fiery  will  which  leaped  up 
in  her,  compelled  the  strong  man  to  yield,  to  reverse  the 
action  of  the  sculls,  and  to  hold  the  rapidly  drifting  boat 
back  with  all  the  strength  of  his  sinews.  But  they  had 
gone  too  far;  every  second  the  current  was  dragging  them 
nearer  to  death. 

“Harder,  Gussie,  harder,”  she  cried,  as  she  felt  that 
they  were  creeping  steadily  forward,  closer  and  closer  to 
the  hiss  and  the  roar. 

Great  Heaven,  I  can’t!”  said  he  hoarsely. 

Then  row  for  the  right  bank!  Pull  as  hard  as  you 
can!  , 

The  right  bank  was  not  far.  With  one  strong  stroke  he 
put  the  head  of  the  boat  right  for  it,  and,  straining  every 
muscle,  pulled  her  across  the  stream,  his  right  scull  touch¬ 
ing  one  of  the  posts  as  he  shot  the  boat  past  it,  and  drove 
with  a  shock  straight  into  the  bank.  The  stern  of  the  fragile 
craft  was  instantly  swung  round  bytlie  stream,  but  for  a 
moment  the  bow  stuck  fast,  while  Doris  seized  the  boat¬ 
hook  and  stuck  it  deep  into  the  yielding  spongy  earth. 

Melton  sprung  ashore;  but,  in  the  moment  of  his  doing 
so,  the  boat  lightened  of  the  burden  which  had  kept  her 
head  fixed  in  the  earth,  broke  away,  and  the  boat-hook,  not 
having  strong  enough  hold  on  the  loose  soil  of  the  bank  to 
bear  the  additional  strain,  slipped  out  of  its  place.  Melton 
flung  himself  down  on  the  mud  and  grass  of  the  bank,  and, 
with  such  hold  on  root  and  branch  and  stone  as  he  could 
get  with  the  grip  of  his  right  hand,  he  clutched  the  drifting 
boat  with  his  left. 

“Up,  Doris — quick!  I  can’t  hold  it!”  he  gasped. 


i£ 


nr  i 


DORIS  S  FORTUNE. 


51 


In  a  moment  she  had  stepped  across  from  stern  to  bow, 
and,  laying  a  light  hand  on  his  heaving  shoulder,  had 
sprung  ashore. 

“  Thank — thank  God!”  he  almost  sobbed. 

In  his  tumultuous  gladness,  as  he  felt  her  touch  and 
knew  she  was  safe,  he  would  have  let  the  boat  go  to  take  its 
chance.  Doris  cried  imperiously: 

“  Stop  the  boat;  drag  her  up!  We  must  save  her  some¬ 
how  !” 


It  was  easier  now  that  the  boat  was  empty.  Doris  lent 
her  weaker  but  steadier  hand  to  his  somewhat  exhausted 
strength;  and  they  dragged  the  boat  along  till  she  was  out 
of  the  rush  of  the  current,  and  made  her  fast  for  a  moment 
to  a  stump.  Then  Melton,  hatless,  wet,  covered  with  mud, 
his  hands  blistered,  torn,  and  bleeding,  panting  with  the 
efforts  he  had  had  to  make,  stooped  down  to  her  in  broken 
shamefaced  entreaty. 

“  Doris,  Doris,  I  was  mad.  Can  you  ever  forgive  me? 
David  never  will!” 

She  looked  up  into  his  face,  which  was  still  nervously 
quivering — old  for  the  moment  with  the  violent  passions  it 
had  in  those  hard-lived  past  minutes  expressed. 

“I  forgive  you,”  she  said  quietly.  “  As  for  David,  I 
shall  not  tell  him  anything  about  it.  He  would  get  your 
friends  to  send  you  to  a  lunatic  asylum.” 


CHAPTER  VII. 


Doris  and  Gussie  stood  in  silence  for  some  minutes  on 
the  bank,  amidst  the  rank  vegetation  of  the  water’s  edge, 
while  Melton  recovered  his  breath;  and  Doris,  impatient  to 
set  off  again,  wondered  what  she  should  say  on  her  return 
to  the  gossiping  crowd  to  explain  this  prolonged  absence 
and  the  forlorn  plight  of  her  companion.  With  all  the  ad¬ 
vantage  which  her  self-command,  and  the  superiority  of  her 
moral  position,  and  of  her  dry  and  neat  condition,  gave 
her  over  the  misguided  and  half-drowned- looking  creature 
beside  her,  Doris  felt  rather  afraid  of  this  lad,  with  his  un¬ 
governable  passions  and  his  fits  of  love  and  fury.  She 
hardly  dared  to  look  at  him  at  first,  lest  the  pity  she  could 
not  help  feeling  should  draw  forth  some  wild  demonstra¬ 
tion. 


52 


DORIS  S  FORTUNE. 


He  was  leaning  against  one  of  the  trees  which  grew  al¬ 
most  close  to  the  water's  edge,  and,  as  she  looked  anxiously 
out  over  the  river,  gray  with  the  evening  mist,  toward  the 
lock,  she  heard  his  labored  breathing  through  all  the  rush 
of  the  wear  and  the  ripple  of  the  current  against  the  bank 
at  her  feet.  She  turned  toward  him,  anxious  and  fright¬ 
ened.  The  hot  flush  of  passion  had  left  his  face  ghastly 
white  through  the  mud  with  which  it  was  smeared;  his 
clothes  were  disordered,  dirty,  and  torn ;  blood  was  drop¬ 
ping  from  his  hands;  his  head  was  thrown  back  in  an  atti¬ 
tude  of  utter  powerlessnes,  which  in  a  man  of  his  strength 
and  stature  was  terrible  to  the  woman's  eyes.  She  touched 
his  arm  very  gently. 

“  Gussie,  Gusie,  are  you  ill?  What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

“  No,  no,  I  am  not  ill  only  miserable." 

“  You  are  wet  through.  Get  into  the  boat,  and  I  wiT 
try  to  bind  up  your  poor  hands. " 

The  anxiety  in  her  voice  acted  at  once  upon  the  young 
fellow's  sensitive,  impulsive  nature.  He  stumbled  forward 
into  the  boat,  holding  out  his  hand  to  help  her  in,  and 
withdrawing  it  as  he  suddenly  became  aware  of  its  condi¬ 
tion.  She  told  him  to  sit  on  the  cushioned  seat  in  the  stern. 

“  But  I  am  going  to  row;  I  must  get  you  back,"  he  said 
humbly. 

“  Do  as  I  tell  you  to  do,"  said  Doris  gently. 

She  placed  herself  beside  him  and  bathed  his  cut  hands 
in  the  river  to  cleanse  them  from  the  mud  into  which  he 
had  plunged,  found  his  pocket-handkerchief  and  tore  it  and 
her  own  into  strips,  bound  up  his  hands  with  them,  and 
wiped  the  mud  from  his  face  with  the  lace  she  had  been 
wearing  round  her  own  shoulders. 

“  Don't — you'll  spoil  it,"  objected  the  poor  fellow,  very 
much  soothed  by  these  attentions,  which  she  performed  in 
very  few  minutes  with  light  quick  fingers. 

“  I  am  afraid  I  can  not  make  you  look  very  nice—  with¬ 
out  a  hat  and  without  a  brush  or  a  scraper,"  said  she 
brightly;  “  but  still  I  think  I  have  effected  a  great  im¬ 
provement;  and  Mrs.  Ilillier  may  be  able  to  lend  us  some 
sort  of  head-gear — one  of  Willie's  garden-hats  perhaps.  We 
must  fetch  Willie,  you  know.  You  are  shivering  again! 
Have  you  any  cigars  about  you?" 

“  I  don't  know.  I  think  so,  unless  they  have  fallen 
out," 


BORISES  FORTUNE. 


53 


He  began  to  feel  about  with  his  bandaged  hands.  He 
looked  so  crest-fallen,  so  unutterably  helpless  and  ashamed 
of  himself,  that  Doris  pitied  him  with  all  her  heart. 

“  I'll  find  them  for  you.  You  had  better  keep  your 
hands  still,  or  my  not  very  skillful  bandages  will  come  off.” 

“  Oh,  thank  you;  I  don’t  like  to  trouble  you!” 

No  more  presumption.  His  humility  was  quite  piteous. 

She  felt  in  all  his  pockets,  until  she  had  found  cigars, 
matches,  and  a  pen- knife;  then  she  cut  the  tip  off  one 
cigar,  put  it  between  his  lips,  struck  a  match  and  lighted  it 
for  him,  all  very  simply  and  brightly,  but  with  a  good-nat¬ 
ured  intention  of  restoring  his  desperately  wounded  amour- 
propre  a  little  by  the  undeniable  coquetry  of  the  action. 

“  Now  we’ll  get  your  errand  over,  and  go  back  as  fast  as 
we  can;  and  perhaps  you  won’t  take  cold,  after  all,”  said 
she, 

He  answered  only  by  incoherent  but  not  vehement 
thanks,  and  Doris  took  up  the  spare  pair  of  sculls,  for  both 
the  other  sculls  had  been  lost  and  had  been  carried  over  the 
wear,  and  pulled  across  the  river  to  Mrs.  Hillier’s  villa  by 
the  lock. 

The  little  boy  had  been  howling  with  disappointment  for 
some  time,  as  his  mother  thought  he  had  been  forgotten; 
it  was  so  late  that  Doris  had  to  use  all  her  powers  of  en¬ 
treaty  to  persuade  her  to  let  the  child  come,  promising  to 
send  one  of  her  own  servants  back  with  him  in  an  hour.  A 
lawn-tennis  hat  and  a  rug  were  procured  for  the  unfortu¬ 
nate  Mr.  Melton,  who  remained  in  his  seat  as  passenger  in 
charge  of  little  Willie,  a  fair-haired  angel  whose  will  was 
law  in  his  mother’s  household.  As  Gussie  did  not  feel 
justified  in  allowing  him  to  hang  over  the  side  of  the  boat 
and  drink  out  of  the  river  with  his  hands,  the  angel 
thumped  him  and  thwacked  him,  and  at  last,  by  a  happy 
inspiration,  snatched  his  cigar  out  of  his  mouth  and  threw 
it  into  the  water.  So  that  his  return  was  altogether  igno¬ 
minious  and  chastening;  and  as  Doris,  who  could  row  very 
well,  and  who  was  moreover  pulling  with  the  stream, 
brought  the  boat  in  a  very  short  time  back  to  the  shores  of 
Mrs.  Bramwell’s  garden,  where  the  Chinese  lanterns  were 
already  being  lighted  among  the  trees,  the  wicked  fellow 
felt  that  he  would  infinitely  rather  be  at  the  bottom  of  the 
wear,  even  without  Doris,  than  face  the  scrutiny  of  the 


54 


PORTS*S  fortune. 


critical  crowd  on  the  lawn,  which  was  however  already  De¬ 
gin  ning  to  thin. 

Doris  landed  at  the  end  of  the  grounds  the  most  remote 
from  the  large  lawn;  but  a  little  group  had  gathered  to 
meet  her  and  to  exclaim  that  everybody  had  begun  to  think 
she  was  drowned.  Nobody  paid  much  attention  to  Gussie, 
or  appeared  much  relieved  at  his  return  until  Doris  ex¬ 
plained  that  they  had  had  an  accident  on  landing  as  she  had 
already  told  Mrs.  Hillier—  the  boat  had  been  insecurely 
moored,  and  Mr.  Melton  had  cut  his  hands  dreadfully  in 
getting  her  back  to  the  shore,  having  slipped  into  the  water 
himself  and  having  had  great  difficulty  in  saving  both  him¬ 
self  and  the  boat.  Mrs.  Bramwell  herself,  who  had  come 
up  in  time  to  hear  this  story,  was  much  moved  by  it,  and 
insisted  upon  his  going  in-doors  with  her  immediately  to 
change  his  clothes,  which  were  still  very  wet. 

“  I  will  send  you  some  things  of  my  husband's.  I  can't 
promise  that  they  will  fit  you  very  well;  but  it  is  better 
than  that  you  should  take  cold,  and  they  will  at  least  be 
dry,"  she  said,  as  she  marched  him  off. 

And,  as  Mr.  Bramwell  was  a  very  small  spare  man,  while 
Mr.  Melton  was  a  very  tall  broad-chested  one,  Doris  won¬ 
dered  what  the  unlucky  culprit  would  look  like  when  he  next 
appeared  before  her. 

Doris  had  been  rather  surprised  not  to  see  her  husband 
among  the  people  who  had  collected  to  await  the  arrival  of 
the  boat;  she  had  been  afraid  lest  anxiety  on  her  account 
should  lend  him  penetration,  and  that  he  would  not  be  sat¬ 
isfied  with  her  explanation.  It  was  too  much  to  hope  that 
her  long  absence  should  not  have  been  noticed  by  him,  and, 
as  she  returned  to  the  lawn,  Mrs.  Hodson's  voice,  from  one 
of  the  marquees,  called  out: 

“  There  she  is!  I  told  you  she  would  come  back  all 
right.  Oh,  Mrs.  Glyn,  where  have  you  been?  I  don't  think 
you  ought  to  treat  your  husband  like  that  already;  he  has 
been  nearly  dancing  with  fright  on  your  account!" 

“  Yes,  Doris,  I  have  been  dreadfully  uneasy  about  you," 
said  David,  putting  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  bending 
down  to  look  at  her.  “  What  have  you  been  doing  with 
yourself?  You  look  very  pale,  and  you  are  cold!  Have 
you  met  with  any  accident,  my  dear  child?"  asked  he, 
with  sudden  alarm. 

“  Oh,  no;  lam  all  right.  Poor  Mr.  Melton  has  had  an 


DORIS’S  FOftTUXE. 


55 


accident,  though;  he  slipped  into  the  water  to  stop  the  boat 
from  drifting  away,  because  we  had  fastened  it  insecurely, 
and  he  cut  his  hands  and  got  covered  with  mud.  That  de¬ 
layed  us,  of  course,  because  I  had  to  bind  up  his  wounds; 
and  I  had  time  to  get  rather  cold.  Don’t  look  so  dreadful¬ 
ly  frightened,  David;  indeed  there  is  nothing  the  matter 
with  me/’  said  she,  laughing  sweetly  at  his  grave  face. 

“Don’t  keep  her  standing  there  on  the  damp  grass/’ 
broke  in  Mrs.  Hodson’ s  genial,  rather  loud  voice.  She  had 
followed  David  out  of  the  marquee,  and  now  quite  natural¬ 
ly  assumed  the  office  of  dictatress  in  this  small  emergency. 

“  The  poor  child’s  hands  are  as  cold  as  stones,”  she  went 
on,  after  holding  for  a  moment  Doris’s  slim  fingers  in  her 
own  soft  pink  palm,  “  and  there  you  stand,  putting  her 
through  a  foolish  catechism  of  grandmother’s  questions, 
when  you  ought  to  be  trotting  her  home  to  bed.  ” 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  Mrs.  Hodson  drew  the 
young  wife’s  arm  through  hers  and  marched  with  her 
briskly  across  the  lawn,  followed  meekly  by  the  self-re- 
proachful  David,  whom  she  went  on  scolding  with  voluble 
severity: 

“You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Glyn,  trusting 
ycur  wife  in  a  boat  with  a  young  fool  who  thinks  more  of 
soiling  his  gloves  than  of  letting  a  lady  sow  the  seeds  of 
consumption  and  congestion  of  the  lungs  while  he  is  moon¬ 
ing  about  all  over  the  river,  afraid  to  pull  hard  and  unable 
to  pull  straight!  Why,  even  Bertram” — “Bertram” 
was  the  name  of  Mrs.  "Hodson ’s  husband,  always  used  by 
her  as  a  type  of  the  lowest  depths  of  masculine  degrada¬ 
tion — “  would  never  let  me  get  into  a  boat  with  a  man  who 
didn’t  know  the  river.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your¬ 
self,  Glyn.  ” 

“But  Gussie  Melton  does  know  the  river,”  protested 
Doris*  “  and  he  did  pull  hard!  One  can’t  help  accidents; 
and  it  is  he  who  is  to  be  pitied,  not  I,  for  I  only  feel  rather 
cold,  and  can  go  straight  home  and  get  warm,  while  poor 
Gussie  has  cut  his  hands  and  had  to  sit  wet  through,  and  he 
has  to  get  back  to  London  to-night.” 

“  Poor  boy!”  said  Mrs.  Hodson,  with  quick  revulsion  to 
compassion. 

Her  mature  coquetry  made  her  ears  always  open  to  a  tale 
of  masculine  distress,  and  her  wit  always  ready  to  suggest 


56 


Doris’s  forte  he. 


a  remedy.  They  had  now  reached  the  lodge  gates,  and 
Mrs.  Hodson  did  not  go  through  them. 

“  He  might  come  back  to  the  Lawns  with  Bertram  and 
me  to-night/’  she  said  reflectively.  “That  would  give 
time  for  his  own  things  to  be  thoroughly  dried  before  he 
had  to  put  them  on  to  go  back  home.  ” 

“  Oh,  you  are  good!”  burst  out  Doris  gratefully. 

Mrs.  Bram well’s  house  was  full,  she  knew,  and  she  had 
been  reluctant  to  ask  Gussie  to  spend  the  night  at  Fairleigh, 
being  afraid  of  another  “  scene  ”  with  that  explosive  young 
gentleman.  Mrs.  Hodson ’s  good-natured  offer  relieved  her 
from  this  difficulty;  and  Doris  felt,  as  she  shook  hands 
with  her  and  wished  her  good-night,  that  she  could  almost 
forgive  the  elder  lady’s  strange  freak  in  calling  David  by 
his  surname  without  prefix. 

David  glanced  back  at  the  somewhat  solid  and  majestic 
figure  of  the  elder  lady,  who  was  at  that  moment  prudently 
occupied  in  gathering  up  her  voluminous  pale  silk  train, 
revealing  as  she  did  so  dainty  French  shoes,  perfect  ankles, 
and  skirts  edged  with  delicate  lace.  Then  he  gave  his  arm 
to  his  wife;  but,  as  they  went  through  the  gates  and  along 
the  few  hundred  feet  which  lay  between  the  lodge  and  their 
own  garden  gate,  he  had  no  more  solicitous  nothings  to  say 
to  her. 

“Why  didn’t  you  ask  young  Melton  to  stay  with  us, 
Doris?”  he  asked,  in  his  usual  mild  tone,  as  he  lifted  the 
latch  of  their  own  gate.  “  It  is  too  bad  to  impose  on  Mrs. 
Hodson’ s  good  nature  by  consigning  the  young  cub  to  her.” 

Doris  laughed  easily. 

“  Oh,  David,  I  never  suggested  that  he  should  go  to  the 
Lawns!  The  invitation  came  quite  spontaneously  from 
Mrs.  Hodson  herself.  Can’t  you  see  that  she  likes  being 
kind  to  young  men?  There’s  a  sort  of  motherly  coquetry 
about  her  which  makes  her  glad  of  an  opportunity  of  pre¬ 
venting  them  from  taking  cold,  and  giving  them  shelter  for 
the  night,  and  that  kind  of  thing.  Wasn’t  she  very  kind 
to  you  when  you  were  rather  lonely  in  London,  before  you 
went  to  India?” 

“  Mr.  Hodson  often  took  me  down  to  the  Lawns  to  dine, 
and  his  wife  always  backed  him  up  in  hospitality.  But  I 
don’t  think  that  should  be  sufficient  reason  for  your  sneers 
at  her,  ” 


DORIS’S  FORTUNE.  57 

Doris  looked  up  at  her  husband  with  gentle  astonish¬ 
ment: 

“I  did  not  mean  to  sneer,  indeed,  David.  I  admire 
Mrs.  Hodson  very  much.  Those  curious,  beautiful  eyes  of 
hers  that  puzzle  you  to  tell  what  color  they  are,  seem  to 
me  quite  the  most  wonderful  I  have  ever  seen.  They  are 
like  jewels  in  the  sun  which  have  no  particular  meaning, 
yet  'dazzle  you  by  their  brilliancy.  So  that  I  imagine  that 
Mr.  Hodson  must  have  looked  at  them  and  looked  at  them, 
until,  just  like  a  woman  looking  at  diamonds,  he  could  not 
be  satsfied  till  they  belonged  to  him.” 

“  And  do  you  think  they  must  necessarily  have  for  every 
other  man  the  charm  they  have  for  Mr.  Hodson?” 

“  Oh,  no,  David!  Why,  did  you  think  I  was  jealous?” 
she  asked,  smiling,  as  she  drew  her  hand  affectionately 
further  through  his  arm.  “  I  am  too  vain  for  that,  indeed, 
even  if  Mrs.  Hodson  were  ten  years  younger.” 

“  Jealous?  Of  course  not!  I  only  thought  that  perhaps 
you  felt  a  little  natural  annoyance  that  Mrs.  Hodson,  a 
married  lady  of  some  years*  standing,  should  have  absorbed 
the  lion’s  share  of  attention  at  this  garden-party  instead  of 
you — a  younger  beauty  and  a  bride.** 

Doris  laughed  outright,  not  quite  heartily;  for  her 
amusement  was  mingled  with  almost  contemptuous  amaze¬ 
ment  that  her  husband  could  possibly  imagine  her  to  be  so 
small-minded.  In  a  moment  she  checked  herself,  feeling 
ashamed  of  her  momentary  undutifulness. 

“  No,  David;  I  am  perfectly  satisfied  with  our  relative 
positions,  and  I  am  quite  ready  to  yield  Mrs.  Hodson  as 
much  homage  as  every  one  else  does.  She  seems  to  me  to 
have  been  born  a  few  centuries  too  late  and  a  great  many 
ranks  too  low.  She  ought  to  have  been  a  Roman  empress 
instead  of  an  English  stock-broker*s  wife.** 

“A  Roman  empress!**  It  was  David’s  turn  to  laugh 
now.  “  Plump,  matronly,  comfortable  Mrs.  Hodson  a 
Roman  empress!  What  a  woman’s  comparison!** 

“  It  was  suggested  to  me  by  a  woman,  certainly;  but  I 
don’t  see  that  it  is  the  more  contemptible  on  that  account,** 
said  Doris,  gently. 

Down  in  her  inmost  heart  Doris  held  the  secret,  un¬ 
acknowledged,  but  unassailable  belief  that  women  were  the 
recipients  of  a  heaven-sent  illumination,  which  made  them, 
as  long  as  they  kept  themselves  worthy,  high-priestesses  of 


58 


doris5s  fortune. 


wisdom  and  truth  to  guide  the  coarse,  blind  male  portion  of 
mankind  over  the  morasses  into  which  their  blundering 
logic  led  them.  She  did  not,  however,  kick  against  the 
attitude  of  submission  which  she  had  been  taught  to  look 
upon  as  the  most  beautiful  attribute  of  wifehood,  holding 
it  to  be  a  graceful  concession  on  the  part  of  the  wiser  sex  to 
the  less  wise.  So  she  uttered  her  protest  quite  meekly,  and 
David  answered  without  the  least  suspicion  that  his  intel¬ 
lectual  supremacy  had  been  called  in  question. 

“  Certainly  not,  dear,”  he  said,  with  a  young  husband’s 
indulgence.  “  And  who  was  the  woman  who  made  it?” 

6  4  Hilda  Warren.” 

“  And  did  she  condescend  to  give  reasons  for  her  com¬ 
parison?” 

“  She  says  that  Mrs.  Hodson’s  face  shows  more  capacity 
for  cruelty  than  she  ever  saw  expressed  in  a  human  face  be¬ 
fore;  that  her  brightness  has  something  steely  in  it;  that 
her  good  nature  is  only  superficial,  and  comes  chiefly  from 
the  desire  of  universal  domination.  I  believe  she  looks 
upon  her  as  a  sort  of  moral  octopus,  clutching  at  every¬ 
thing  which  comes  within  its  wide-spreading  reach,  and 
never  satisfied  until  it  has  crushed  to  death  any  poor  creat¬ 
ure  that  it  has  once  got  in  its  grasp.  *  ’ 

Doris  delivered  this  speech  quite  dispassionately,  with  no 
feeling  more  vivid  than  a  wish  to  prove  to  her  husband  that 
a  woman  could  form  and  express  rather  neatly  a  very  strong 
independent  opinion  upon  a  subject  in  which  she  had  no 
deep  personal  interest.  But  David  laughed  rather  shortly, 
and  did  not  seem  pleased. 

“  Miss  Warren  has  the  usual 
said. 

And  Doris,  who  was  not  deeply  enough  interested  in  the 
subject  of  Mrs.  Hodson  to  care  for  further  discussion  which 
had  no  attraction  for  her  husband,  followed  him  into  the 
house  without  another  word. 

But  the  author  of  the  unlucky  comparison,  being  as  yet 
free  from  conjugal  fetters  and  holding  her  belief  in  the 
superiority  of  her  own  sex  much  more  obtrusively,  was  a t 
that  moment  picking  her  fellow-woman  to  pieces  with  all 
the  fierceness  of  which  her  smart  little  tongue  was  capable. 
Hilda  Warren,  escorted  by  Charlie  Papillon,  was  following 
Doris  and  her  husband  from  Mrs.  BramwelPs  garden  to 
Fairleigh,  where  they  were  both  to  pass  the  night.  Tho 


prejudices  of  her  sex,”  he 


BORISES  FORTUNE. 


59 


theater  where  Hilda  was  engaged  was  closed  for  a  fortnight 
during  the  extreme  heat  of  August,  and  she  was  enjoying 
her  liberty  with  a  fullness  which  made  her  richer  friends  re¬ 
gret  their  perpetual  leisure. 

“  You  are  most  unjust  to  Mrs.  Hodson,  Hilda/*  said 
Charlie,  as  they  watched  Doris  and  David  in  at  the  front 
door,  and  then  instinctively  made  their  own  way  round  to 
the  more  remote  entrance  through  the  drawing-room. 

“Pm  not.  I  only  said  she  was  a  vampire.* * 

“  That  is  unjust/* 

“  No,  it  isn*t.** 

“  Let*s  go  round  the  garden  and  argue  the  point.  ** 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Charlie  knew  perfectly  well  that  argument  with  Hilda 
would  result  neither  in  victory  to  his  superior  logic  nor  in 
honorable  and  instructive  defeat.  It  would  end  in  a  mere 
battle  of  tongues  in  which  each  would  have  an  infinite  deal 
to  say,  and  neither  would  give  in,  until  some  outer  accident, 
such  as  the  appearance  of  a  third  person,  would  put  an  end 
to  the  discussion.  But  then  argument  with  a  pretty  girl, 
on  the  banks  of  the  Thames,  during  a  summer  evening, 
was  of  itself  an  undeniable  good ;  and  there  was  a  good- 
natured  moon  struggling  to  get  out  from  a  tangle  of  frown¬ 
ing  clouds  to  give  just  the  one  touch  that  was  wanting  to 
the  scene.  So  he  led  Hilda  along  the  left-hand  path  by 
the  evening  primroses  and  larkspurs  and  honeysuckles,  and 
babbled  gently: 

“We  must  have  reasons,  reasons.  The  court  cannot 
admit  the  expression  6  vampire,*  as  applied  to  a  lady,  with¬ 
out  adequate  proof  that  the  term  is  not  misapplied.** 

“  Well,  a  vampire  is  a  thing  in  the  shape  of  a  woman 
that  has  charming  manners  and  no  heart,  and  lives  on  the 
blood  of  human  beings.** 

“  That's  a  ghoul,  not  a  vampire!**  objected  Charlie,  with 
resignation.  “  However,  I  suppose  that*s  near  enough  for 
a  woman.** 

“  Quite  near  enough,**  Hilda  retorted,  unabashed. 
“  Well,  Mrs.  Hodson  has  manners  which  imply  that  she 
has  the  right  to  dispose  of  the  body  and  soul  of  every  one 
she  meets,  and  that  is  considered  irresistible  by  you  men, 
who  like  to  be  walked  upon,  I  know.** 


60 


Doris's  fortune. 


“  I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to  reject  this  evidence  as  inad¬ 
missible,  on  account  of  the  evident  bias  shown  by  the  wit¬ 
ness.  " 

“  Nonsense!  I  suppose  you  think  it  quite  right  of  a 
married  woman  to  monopolize  another  woman's  husband, 
and  to  reproach  him  for  not  coming  to  see  her,  and  to  give 
him  her  lace  to  carry,  and  to  make  him  run  about  for  her 
as  his  own  wife  never  thought  of  doing." 

“  Mrs.  Hodson  makes  everybody  run  about.  She  makes 
me  run  about  when  I've  nothing  better  to  do." 

66  My  dear  Charlie,  she  will  let  you  run  where  you  please 
for  the  next  few  months,  you  may  be  sure.  Mrs.  Hodson 
likes  the  wise  men  who  bring  gifts,  and  I  heard  Mr.  Glyn 
promise  to  get  her  a  King  Charles  spaniel;  I've  no  doubt 
she  asked  for  it." 

“  Well,  and  do  you  think  he  would  mind  Doris's  know¬ 
ing  that?" 

“  No;  but  I  think  it  would  be  better  if  Doris  did  mind. 
If  I  had  a  husband  who  gave  King  Charles  spaniels  to  other 
women,  I  would  never  accept  a  present  from  him  again. " 

“  And,  if  all  wives  thought  the  same,  no  husband  would 
be  without  a  King  Charles  spaniel  ready  in  his  pocket.  I 
think  Doris  much  wiser  than  you  would  be,  and  we  need 
not  trouble  our  heads  about  her  and  David.  They  are 
perfectly  matched-,  and  make  a  much  better  host  and  host¬ 
ess  than  the  Arcadian  pair  who  begin  by  being  unable  to 
live  out  of  each  other's  sight  and  end  by  being  unable  to 
live  in  it.  I  consider  them  a  model  product  of  nineteenth 
century  civilization." 

“  They  are  much  too  well  matched.  You  don't  want  to 
sit  in  front  of  your  own  portrait." 

“  They  did,  and  they  seem  to  like  it." 

“  They  don't.  They  leave  the  portrait  to  be  admired  by 
other  people. " 

“  This  is  not  evidence,"  began  Charlie  gravely,  when  the 
appearance  of  an  odd  figure  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall 
which  divided  Fairleigh  from  Mrs.  Bram well's  garden  made 
him  pause,  and  seemed  to  supply  an  odd  commentary  to 
the  conversation. 

It  was  the  unlucky  Gussie,  who,  anxious  for  a  chance  of 
apologizing  to  Doris  for  his  conduct  in  a  more  formal  man¬ 
ner  than  he  had  yet  done,  but  ashamed  to  come  boldly  to 
the  door  weighted  by  the  disadvantage  of  another  man's 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


61 


clothes,  was  on  the  lookout  for  some  happy  accident  to 
grant  him  the  interview  he  did  not  dare  to  seek  more 
boldly. 

“  What  are  you  looking  for,  Mr.  Melton?”  cried  Hilda, 
in  a  shrill  voice,  running  toward  the  wall  to  prevent  his 
escape. 

“  I — I  only  wanted  to — to  wish  you  good-night,”  said  he 
confusedly,  preparing  to  retreat. 

But  the  appearance  of  Doris,  walking  quickly  toward 
them  over  the  lawn,  checked  him;  and  he  remained  by  the 
wall  sullen,  silent  and  ashamed,  wondering  whether  his 
longed-for  opportunity  was  coming. 

“  Hilda,  you  ought  not  to  stay  out  so  late,”  said  Doris, 
in  her  sweet  voice.  “  Charlie,  don't  you  know  she  has  had 
congestion  of  the  lungs?” 

“  Well,  you  can't  have  it  twice,  you  know,”  said  Charlie, 
whose  medical  lore  was  not  deep,  and  who  remembered 
having  heard  something  of  the  kind  about  measles. 

Coming  closer  to  the  group,  Doris  caught  sight  of  Gussie 
on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  bashfully  screening  himself  in 
his  ill-fitting  raiment  behind  a  lilac-bush. 

6  6  And  you  too,  Gussie — you  ought  to  be  in-doors.  It  is 
so  easy  to  take  cold  after  such  a  plunge  as  you  took.  ” 

“  I  am  all  right,  thank  you,”  said  he  stiffly. 

He  felt  unspeakably  humiliated  by  her  easy,  almost  affec¬ 
tionate  tone,  which  implied  to  his  sensitive  and  irritable 
mind  that  his  passionate  outbreak  had  affected  her  only  as 
a  child's  fit  of  temper  would  have  done.  Some  kindly  per¬ 
ception  of  his  wounded  feeling  prompted  her  to  detain  him 
as  he  was  for  the  second  time  turning  away. 

“Wait  a  moment!”  she  said  gently,  raising  her  hand 
with  a  gracious  gesture  of  command  common  to  her,  and 
not  without  charm.  “Are  you  not  going  back  to  the 
Lawns  to-night  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hodson?” 

“  I  suppose  so.  They've  asked  me  to,”  admitted  Gussie 
briefly. 

Charlie  began  to  perceive  that  the  irritated  naughty-boy 
tone  of  the  young  gentleman  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall 
showed  a  state  of  mind  to  be  dealt  with  only  en  tete-a-tete. 

“  Shall  I  take  Hilda  in,  Doris?”  he  asked  dutifully.  He 
had  taken  a  paternal  attitude  toward  Mrs.  Glyn  since  her 
marriage,  and  had  dropped  into  use  of  her  Christian  name. 

Doris  was  glad  of  the  chance  of  a  few  words  alone  with 


62 


DORIS’S  FORTUNE. 


Gussie;  and,  when  the  other  two  had  started  off  at  a  brisk 
pace  for  the  house,  she  put  one  foot  on  the  earth  of  the 
flower-border  to  bring  her  nearer  to  the  wall,  and  said,  in 
her  sweetest  voice: 

“  David,  my  husband,  wanted  me  to  ask  you  to  stay  the 
night  at  Fairleigh.  He  is  afraid  of  your  going  so  far  as 
the  Lawns.  ” 

“  Mr.  Glyn  is  very  kind;  but  I  am  not  made  of  ginger¬ 
bread.  99 

“  Now,  Gussie,  how  canyon  be  so  rude  and  ill-tempered? 
The  whole  world  is  not  in  a  conspiracy  against  you,  as  you 
seem  to  think.  On  the  contrary,  you  have  friends  who  like 
you  very  much,  who  are  doing  all  they  can  to  improve  your 
prospects  and  make  the  world  brighter  for  you.  I  know 
you  have  had  a  hal'd  time  of  it  lately  and  great  disappoint¬ 
ments;  and,  if  I  have  done  anything  to  make  it  harder,  I 
am  very  sorry.  I  know  how  dreadful  it  must  be  to  have 
troubles,  and  indeed  I  would  do  anything  in  the  world  I 
could  to  help  to  clear  them  away. 99 

She  paused,  not  quite  knowing  how  to  go  on.  Trouble 
was  indeed,  as  her  words  naively  showed,  an  unknown  ex¬ 
perience  to  her.  She  had  grown  up  placidly  and  happily 
under  the  wing  of  her  aunt,  with  no  knowledge  of  the  cares  of 
the  world  deeper  than  that  she  could  gain  by  sight  and  hear¬ 
ing.  Being  of  a  kindly  nature,  she  was  all  the  more  ready 
to  hold  out  hands  of  help  toward  those  fellow-creatures  who 
were  struggling  with  the  vague  evil;  and  that  her  own  per¬ 
sonal  friends  should  suffer  from  money  troubles  while  she 
had  more  than  enough  caused  her  the  keenest  distress  she 
had  ever  known.  This  poor  Gussie  wanted  money,  she 
knew;  but  how  was  she  to  frame  her  offer  of  it?  His  face 
was  in  shade,  but  the  restless  movements  of  his  hands  upon 
the  top  of  the  low  wall  seemed  to  show  that  he  was  ill  at 
ease.  She  made  another  step  forward,  and  looked  up  at 
him  in  the  moonlight. 

“  IsnT  there  anything  I  could  do,  Gussie,  to  help  you,  out 
of  your  troubles?  You  may  trust  me,  you  know,  and  con¬ 
fide  in  me  just  as  if  I  were  your  sister.” 

Then  she  smiled  reassuringly  arid  waited  for  an  answer; 
but  for  a  few  moments  she  got  none.  Not  that  Gussie  was 
sulky  this  time  — his  ill-temper  had  suddenly  given  way  be¬ 
fore  her  sweetness;  but  he  did  not  know  how  to  answer  her, 
and  in  the  meantime  he  was  gazing  down,  under  cover  of 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


63 


the  darkness,  upon  her  beautiful  pure  face,  with  a  strong 
sense  of  shame  at  his  recent  conduct  toward  her  and  a  new 
feeling  of  worship  toward  this  fair  woman*  in  the  steady 
gaze  of  whose  eyes  he  began  to  read  a  goddess-like  calmness 
which  made  his  own  flickering  passions  and  prejudices  con¬ 
temptible.  At  last  he  said,  in  a  gruff  tone  which  did  not 
in  the  least  express  his  feelings — 

“  You  are  very  kind.  But — but  I  don’t  want  any  help 
— at  least,  any  you  could  give.” 

“  Gh,  but  are  you  sure?  Isn’t  there  any  appointment 
that  David — yes,  you  are  not  to  get  impatient  when  I  men¬ 
tion  David — that  he  could  get  for  you,  or  help  you  to  get? 
You  mustn’t  think  me  impertinent,  Gussie — perhaps  I  am 
quite  wrong;  but  they  said  you  were  in  difficulties  of  some 
sort-—  ’  ’ 

“  They!  Who’s  { they  ’?”  asked  Gussie,  hotly. 

u  Oh,  I  don’t  know  exactly!  But,  if  you  are,  and  you 
will  only  tell  nie — ” 

“  What  good  would  telling  you  do?”  asked  he  less  un- 
amiably.  “  Don’t  you  know  it  is  out  of  the  question  for  a 
man  to  receive  help  from  a  woman,  especially — especially 
me  from  you?” 

“  I  don’t  see  that  at  all.  I  am  your  friend,  am  I  not, 
whom  you  respect  and  trust?  Well,  then,  you  must  let  me 
help  you  just  as  if  I  were  not  a  woman,  but  your  own  sister. 
That  is  understood.  Now  good-night;  go  back  into  the 
house  as  fast  as  you  can;  I  see  you  are  shivering.  I  begin 
to  wish  I  had  let  David  have  his  own  way  and  keep  you 
here;  however,  he  is  coming  to  see  you  to-morrow,  I  think. 
I  am  afraid  you  will  take  cold,  after  ail.  Good-night.” 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  which  he  held  for  a  few  moments 
firmly  but  reverently  in  both  his,  before  he  let  her  go. 

“  God  bless  you!”  he  said  at  last,  as  he  put  both  his 
hands  over  the  wall  to  restore  the  white  fingers  to  their 
owner’s  keeping.  “  If  all  women  were  like  you,  why,  all 
we  wretched  men  would  have  to  spend  our  time  on  our 
knees!” 

“I  think  they  would  get  tired  of  that,  Gussie,”  said 
Doris,  laughing,  as  she  turned  to  go  back  into  the  house. 
“  Men  like  something  more  exciting.” 

Doris  said  this  lightly;  she  was  too  innocent  to  know  the 
truth  of  her  words,  too  innocent  to  perceive  that  her  own 


64 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


husband  was  at  that  very  time  on  the  verge  of  illustrating 
that  truth  rather  forcibly. 

Mot  that  David,  when  he  told  his  wife  the  next  morning 
not  to  expect  him  home  early,  as  he  should  call  at  the 
Lawns  to  see  whether  Gussie  had  recovered  from  the 
effects  of  his  dip  in  the  river,  told  himself  that  he  had  got 
tired  of  the  calm  worship  which  satisfied  his  calm  wife,  and 
that  the  society  of  the  vivacious  Mrs.  Hodson  would  be  a 
pleasant  change.  He  was  not  indeed  so  ignorant  as  not  to 
know  that  excitement  had  a  pleasant,  almost  necessary  zest 
for  his  phlegmatic  nature;  but  that  he  should  want  it  now, 
with  his  honey-moon  scarcely  over,  was  a  thought  too  dis¬ 
loyal  to  his  beautiful  wife  to  be  entertained  for  a  moment. 

So,  on  leaving  at  four  oVlock  the  Government  office 
where  he  still  passed  his  six  hours  every  day,  he  took  the 
train  to  Kichmond,  and  thence  walked  to  the  Lawns.  It 
was  a  large  house  covered  with  white  stucco,  flanked  on  one 
side  by  a  small  conservatory,  on  the  other  by  stables,  which, 
having  been  enlarged  several  times,  now  formed  a  very 
irregular  group  of  buildings.  The  house  itself,  too  near  the 
road  to  be  imposing  by  its  size,  had  no  architectural  feat¬ 
ures  to  redeem  it.  A  mean  bay-window  in  the  center,  a 
small  flight  of  stone  steps  leading  to  an  unpretending  front 
door  at  one  end,  were  the  only  breaks  to  the  hospital-like 
plainness  of  the  building.  Under  the  front  windows  grew 
the  usual  laurels  and  rhododendrons,  and  a  row  of  pollard 
acacias  stood  up,  like  green  mops  set  on  end,  within  the 
plain  wooden  palings  which  shut  in  the  drive.  The  atmos¬ 
phere  of  the  place,  judged  from  the  outside,  was  middle- 
class,  comfortable,  commonplace,  not  in  the  least  suggest¬ 
ive  of  the  abode  of  a  siren  who  would  tempt  men  away 
from  their  own  homes.  Surely  a  man  who  could  be  tempted 
by  the  fascinations  of  such  surroundings  would  be  safe 
nowhere  out  of  heaven — unless  indeed  the  interior  would 
belie  the  exterior.  But  no!  The  door  was  opened  by  a 
pretty  maid-servant,  who  led  the  way  through  the  conven¬ 
tional  tiled  outer  hall,  luxuriously  furnished  with  a  mat 
and  a  patent  scraper,  into  the  conventional  inner  hall,  car¬ 
peted,  mahogany-chaired,  draughty;  thence  into  the  draw¬ 
ing-room,  a  long,  pleasant  room,  with  a  fire-place  at  each 
end  and  two  great  windows  that  led  on  to  a  veranda  walled 
in  by  thick  growths  of  clematis,  wistaria,  and  Virginia 
creeper.  In  this  apartment  the  pre-aesthetic  upholsterer 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


65 


had  been  suffered  to  do  his  very  worst.  The  walls  were 
white  and  gold,  adorned  by  much  glass  and  more  gilding. 
The  carpet  was  bright  green,  the  furniture  was  bright  red. 
In  the  taste  of  the  time  it  was  a  lovely  room;  in  the  taste 
of  all  time  it  was  a  comfortable  one,  cool  in  summer,  warm 
in  winter,  with  easy-chairs  that  were  easy,  a  grand  piano 
that  a  celebrated  composer  had  praised,  and  a  very  few 
small  tables  and  stands  to  tumble  over.  The  ornaments  in 
the  room  were  not  of  a  kind  to  make  one  wish  for  more; 
there  were  wax-flowers  under  a  shade,  stuffed  birds  under 
another,  books  in  bright  bindings,  formally  arranged  in 
twos,  a  painted  chess-table  groaning  under  its  load  of  gilt, 
and  a  “  drawing-room  "  clock,  also  under  a  glass,  by  which 
one  could  not  tell  the  time.  The  room  was  lighted  by  gas 
through  cut-glass  candelabra  on  the  mantel-piece. 

It  was  five  o'clock  when  David  was  shown  into  the  room. 
The  blinds  were  still  down,  to  keep  out  the  August  sun, 
and  were  flapping  gently  in  the  breeze  that  was  rising  to¬ 
ward  evening.  As  the  door  opened,  the  white  blind  of  the 
larger  window  flew  back  in  the  draught,  showing  a  mass  of 
trailing  clematis,  and  letting  in  a  shaft  of  brilliant  sunlight 
upon  the  group  inside  the  room. 

Mrs.  Hodson,  seated  on  a  low  chair,  in  a  filmy  white 
garment  of  muslin  and  lace,  which  would  now  be  called  a 
tea-gown,  was  displaying  her  plump  pink  hands  and  pretty 
white  wrists  to  the  best  advantage  as  she  would  a  ball  of 
Berlin  wool  for  a  barbaric  strip  of  wool-work,  the  purpose 
of  which  was  still  undecided.  Her  fingers  sparkled  with 
diamonds,  her  beautiful  eyes  shone  more  brightly  than  the 
jewels,  and  so  utterly  did  she  absorb  the  attention  of  the 
new-comer  with  her  queenly  presence,  bright  laugh,  and 
genial  voice  of  greeting,  that,  for  the  first  few  moments, 
David  took  no  notice  of  Gussie,  sitting  on  a  footstool,  play¬ 
ing  with  Mrs.  Hodson's  Maltese  dog,  and  was  even  uncon¬ 
scious  of  the  presence  of  his  hostess's  two  daughters,  de- 
mure-looking  girls  of  fourteen  and  sixteen,  who  sat,  the 
one  on  a  sofa,  the  other  on  a  chair,  in  ill-fitting  frocks  of 
pale  stuff,  patterns  of  immaculate  behavior,  and  somewhat 
uninteresting  by  their  apparent  lack  of  any  more  marked 
characteristic. 

“  Come  and  help  me  to  wind  my  wool,  Glyn.  I  can't 
trust  this  boy;  but  you  have  grown  domesticated  lately, 
and  may  be  promoted,"  said  Mrs.  Hodson,  only  pausing  in 


66 


Boris’s  fortune. 


her  work  to  shake  hands  with  him,  and  then  laughing 
heartily  at  his  clumsy  help,  while  the  shunted  Gussie 
turned  his  attention  to  the  neutral-tinted  little  girls. 
“  Why  haven’t  you  brought  your  wife?”  she  wen£  on,  as 
David  picked  up  the  ball  which  he  had  allowed  to  slip  from 
his  fingers.  “It  is  a  most  unprincipled  thing  to  do,  to 
marry  a  lovely  woman,  and  then  to  shut  her  up  so  that  no 
one  can  see  her.  If  you  make  your  appearance  here  with¬ 
out  her  again,  you  will  be  sent  straight  back  to  Pairleigh, 
carriage  paid,  I  warn  you!” 

What  a  frank,  generous  speech  spoken  by  one  woman  of 
a  younger  and  lovelier  one!  It  made  Doris’s  strictures  on 
the  speaker  seem  almost  mean,  David  could  not  help  think¬ 
ing,  as  he  reseated  himself  at  Mrs.  Hodson’s  feet,  and 
Gussie-  continued  to  devote  himself  to  the  neglected  little 

Jirls.  What  a  beautiful,  pleasant  home  might  be  made  of 
'airleigh,  if  only  Doris  could  pick  up  the  queen-like  man¬ 
ner  which  made  the  Lawns  such  a  delightful  place  to  visit! 


CHAPTER  IX. 

To  a  mind  inclined  to  take  a  cynical  view  of  human 
affairs,  a  hearty  welcome  in  prosperity  from  the  person  who 
has  proved  brusque  in  time  of  adversity  is  a  somewhat  bit¬ 
ter  experience.  But  David  Glyn  was  so  sweet-natured  and 
simple-minded  that  when  Mr.  Hodson  came  back  home  from 
the  city  at  half  past  six  and  shook  his  hand  with  a  warmth 
which  he  had  never  shown  to  that  gentleman  before  he  be¬ 
came  the  husband  of  an  heiress,  it  never  occurred  to  the 
younger  man  that  he  owed  this  new  cordiality  to  Doris’s 
fortune.  Mrs.  Hodson  had  always  been  kind,  though  now 
even  in  her  kindness  there  was  an  added  respeec;  but,  in 
the  old  days,  before  he  went  to  India,  David  had  been  used 
to  content  himself  with  very  scant  attention  from  his  host, 
who  had  no  better  way  of  entertaining  unimportant  guests 
than  by  gobbling  down  his  dinner  with  silent  savagery, 
passing  round  the  wine  until  he  had  had  enough  himself, 
and  then  going  to  sleep  in  the  drawing-room. 

Now  all  was  changed.  It  was  Gussie  for  whom  Mr. 
Hodson,  a  portly  gentleman,  with  a  fine  head  and  the 
fixed,  blase  stare  of  a  roue,  reserved  the  perfunctory  nod, 
the  careless  quest  which  does  not  wait  for  an  answer. 


xxms's  FOKTUHE. 


6? 

David,  on  the  contrary,  was  asked  to  give  his  judgment  on 
the  points  of  a  hunter  which  the  stock-broker  had  bought 
the  week  before;  and,  although  he  protested  that  he  was 
ab.mt  as  well  qualified  to  give  an  opinion  on  the  age  of  the 
Pyramids,  lie  was  escorted  with  honor  through  the  stables, 
while  Gussie,  who  understood  horses  better  than  anything 
else,  was  simply  suffered  to  bring  up  the  rear. 

66 1  think  I  must  have  disgusted  Mr.  Hod-son,”  said 
David  to  his  hostess,  when  he  had  beaten  a  retreat  from  the 
stables.  66 1  can  see  he  loves  his  horses  better  than  any¬ 
thing  else  in  the  world;  and  really  I  can  not  pretend  to 
know  much  about  them.” 

“  Then  your  wife  is  a  happy  woman!”  said  Mrs.  Hod- 
son,  raising  her  fine  eyes  to  the  roof  of  the  veranda  with 
melodramatic  effect.  “If  Mr.  Hodson  held  me  a  little 
better  than  his  horse,  a  little  dearer  than  his  dogs,  I  might 
perhaps  get  a  little  more  of  his  society.” 

Mrs.  Hodson's  dramatic  outcry  was  perfectly  genuine; 
she  really  did  feel  most  strongly  that  she  was  an  injured 
wife;  and  simple  David  was  the  last  person  in  the  world  to 
suspect  that,  if  Mr.  Hodson  had  taken  it  into  his  head  to 
become  a  little  fonder  of  his  home,  his  wife  would  have  be¬ 
come  infinitely  less  so.  V 

David  stood  beside  her  for  a  few  moments,  mutely  sym¬ 
pathetic,  leaning  over  the  wisteria  and  clematis  that  hid 
the  veranda  railing,  watching  the  diamonds  flash  on  the 
neglected  wife's  pretty  fingers,  and  listening  with  growing 
indignation  to  Mr.  Hodson's  voice,  which  rang  out  from 
the  stable-yard  with  a  certain  rich  self-satisfaction  in  its 
tones  particularly  irritating  to  the  shy,  retiring  David  Glyn. 
He  made  a  little  movement  of  disgust,  and  turned  quickly 
toward  Mrs.  Hodson. 

“  How  any  man  can  possibly  neglect  you — ”  he  ex¬ 
claimed,  and  left  his  sentence  unfinished. 

“  I  do  try  to  do  my  duty,”  said  the  lady  meekly.  “  You 
really  don't  know,  David — I  can  speak  out  openly  to  you, 
because  you're  such  an  old  friend — what  a  hard  struggle  it 
is  to  be  cheerful  sometimes,  with  Mr.  Hodson  always 
grumbling  at  the  expenses  which  I  try  my  hardest  to  keep 
down,  grudging  me  even  the  money  to  get  my  girls  prop¬ 
erly  educated,  neglecting  me  as  you  know,  bullying  me  as 
you  see.  It  is  as  much  as  I  can  do,  after  lying  awake  cry¬ 
ing  half  the  night  and  struggling  with  bills  all  tine  morning, 


68  DOBIS’S  FOBTtJNE. 

to  get  the  tears  and  the  frowns  off  my  face  before  his  re¬ 
turn  in  the  evening — when  lie  does  return.” 

She  paused,  and  looked  away  from  him,  in  an  attitude 
unbecoming  for  her,  as  it  allowed  her  companion  to  see  the 
faint  line  which  marked  the  change  from  the  natural  tint 
of  her  full  throat  to  the  artificial  whiteness  of  her  face. 
But  her  next  words,  as  she  turned  toward  him  again, 
changed  his  momentary  feeling  of  disgust  to  self-reproach 
and  renewed  sympathy. 

44  Then  the  dear,  good-natured  ladies  who  live  about  here 
find  out  that  I  actually  use  face-powder,  and  wrinkle  up 
their  prim  faces  at  the  mention  of  such  a  crime.  Why, 
David,  I  have  even  condescended  to  redden  my  cheeks  with 
lip-salve  to  hide  the  ravages  his  neglect  has  made  in  my 
looks,  and  to  try  to  please  him  by  imitating  his  favorite 
stvle  of  beauty!” 

There  wTas  some  scornful  spitefulness  in  the  last  words, 
but  David  did  not  notice  this;  he  was  lost  in  pity  for  the 
woman  who  had  to  stoop  to  such  degrading  means  of  con¬ 
ciliating  a  brute  who  was  not  worthy  to  kiss  her  shoes. 

44  It's  disgusting!  I  wonder  you  put  up  with  it!”  was 
all  he  had  to  say,  though  he  felt  as  if  to  Mr.  Hodson  he 
could  have  spoken  very  eloquently  indeed. 

44  Ah,  a  woman  will  put  up  with  anything  for  the  sake 
of  her  children!”  said  she,  pathetically.  44  They  are  grow¬ 
ing  up  now,  you  know;  her  father  insists  upon  Nellie's 
leaving  school,  though  she  is  really  much  too  young.  I 
shall  have  to  sink  now  into  a  chaperon  and  a  wall-hower. 
Don't  you  find  a  great  change  in  me  since  you  saw  me  last, 
David?  Two  yeais  make  an  enormous  difference  in  a 
woman  who  has  to  bear  as  much  as  I  have.” 

“  No,  indeed  I  don't,”  said  David,  heartily.  44 1  think 
the  only  difference  in  you  is  that  you  are  kinder  and  more 
charming  than  ever.” 

He  meant  this  sincerely.  He  was  surprised  to  find  that, 
after  having,  with  much  coolness  and  keenness,  criticised 
her  appearance  on  first  seeing  her  since  his  return,  she 
seemed  to  have  recovered  completely  her  old  touch  upon 
his  feelings,  so  that  he  found  in  her  society  just  the  same 
charm  which  had  made  him,  before  lie  went  to  India,  such 
a  constant  visitor  at  the  Lawns.  A  very  innocent  chaim 
it  had  always  been,  openly  acknowledged,  openly  indulged. 
In  yielding  to  it  again,  and  even  feeling  that  he  enjoyed  it 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


69 


with  new  zest  after  long  abstinence,  David  felt  no  disloy¬ 
alty  to  his  beautiful  young  wife,  bad  no  thought  of  danger. 
This  dear  young  lady  was  years  older  than  he.  was  perfectly 
honest,  undoubtedly  irreproachable,  and  had  an  acknowl¬ 
edged  empire  over  her  acquaintances. 

It  was  with  quite  playful  chivalry  that  David  raised  her 
plump  hand  to  his  lip?  and  kissed  it.  Her  pretty  sense  ox 
sovereignty,  shaken  bv  her  husband's  neglect,  must  be  re¬ 
stored.  As  his  lips  touched  her  fingers,  however,  some 
feeling  a  little  stronger  than  he  had  expected  made  his 
touch  firmer,  more  ardent  than  he  had  intended.  A  hot 
flush  came  into  his  cheeks  as  he  let  her  hand  fall;  but  her 
perfect  calmness,  and  the  easy  self-possession  with  which 
she  received  this  attention,  at  once  restored  his  self-com¬ 
mand.  Though  her  friends  little  suspected  it,  an  icy  in¬ 
capacity  for  any  form  of  passion  involving  tenderness 
formed  the  basis  of  that  bold  and  brilliant  coquetry  which, 
protected  by  its  invisible  armor  of  steel,  knew  no  fear  and 
was  generally  irresistible. 

Mrs.  Hodson  w7as  not  in  any  sense  a  wicked  woman,  but 
she  was  vain  and  jealous;  and  the  marriage  of  any  man 
who  had  ever  formed  one  of  her  train  of  Platonic  admirers 
was  an  offense  which  could  be  expiated  only  by  a  little  in¬ 
nocent  neglect  of  the  upstart  bride  in  her  favor.  She  had 
no  fear  of  playing  with,  fire,  never  having  burned  herself 
yet,  and  not  being  of  combustible  nature.  She  therefore 
felt  only  a  tiny  thrill  of  gratified  pride  as  she  glanced  at  the 
mark  which  the  pressure  of  David’s  lips  had  made  upon 
her  hand. 

“Mr. — Mr.  Hodson  has  felt  tho  general  depression  in 
business,  then?”  said  he,  not  meaning  to  be  impertinent, 
but  anxious  to  turn  the  talk  to  something  very  prosaic. 

“  Oh,  no!”  answered  Mrs.  Hodson,  with  much  vivacity. 
She  had  very  strong  reasons  for  combating  this  suggestion. 
“  Mr.  Hodson  is  a  very  clever  man  of  business,  as  you 
know,  and  1  believe  he  has  made  more  money  than  ever 
this  year.  But  I  think  money  makes  a  man  mean,  and,  at 
any  rate,  it  is  not  on  me  he  spends  it.” 

To  a  more  acute  person  than  David  this  remark  would 
have  suggested  the  mental  question,  Whose  money  wras  it 
that  got  spent  on  this  diamond-bright  lady?  But  the  blind 
young  man  only  gave  a  sympathetic  sigh  at  the  fearful 
amount  of  stock-broking  depravity  which  this  speech  re* 


70 


doris’s  fortune. 


vealed.  Not  that  he  was  a  fool;  but  his  companion  wai 
just  one  of  those  women  in  whose  society  most  men  would 
pass  for  fools.  Not  intellectual  enough  to  call  forth  the 
exercise  of  intellect  in  others,  she  was  high-spirited  enough 
to  charm  men  into  easy  acquiescence  with  her  own  arbitrary 
opinions.  Lo  David  listened,  and  allowed  himself  to  be 
convinced,  and  it  was  left  to  a  by-stander  to  discover  that 
he  was  being  played  with. 

Standing  at  the  door  in  the  high  wall  which  separated 
the  stable-yard  from  the  garden,  Gussie  Melton  had  seen 
David  kiss  Mrs.  Hodson ’s  hand,  and  had  failed  to  put  upon 
the  incident  the  construction  David  would  have  wished. 
He  discreetly  retreated  into  the  stable-yard,  and  did  not  re¬ 
appear  until  his  host,  a  few  moments  later,  led  the  way  to 
the  house,  clamoring  loudly  for  dinner. 

This  meal  wTas  the  chief  event  of  the  day  to  the  stock¬ 
broker,  who  devoted  himself  to  it  body  and  mind,  as  he  sat 
between  his  two  upright  and  solemn  little  daughters,  of 
whom  he  was  really  fond,  and  to  whom  he  devoted  such 
attention,  in  the  form  of  snubs,  as  the  great  business  of  the 
evening  left  him  leisure  for. 

Opposite  to  him  sat  his  wrife,  who,  to  mark  her  sense  of 
his  coarseness,  eat  scarcely  anything,  and  shot  occasional 
glances  through  the  branches  of  the  epergne  at  his  bent 
head  which  were  calculated  to  rouse  an  onlooker’s  sympa¬ 
thy  for  that  erring  man. 

Gussie  Melton,  who  sat  on  her  left,  woke  up  into  surpris¬ 
ing  animation,  and,  undaunted  by  the  presence  of  the  lady’s 
husband,  who  indeed  was  thankful  to  her  Platonic  admirers 
for  diverting  her  attention  from  his  own  delinquencies, 
paid  Mrs.  Hodson  such  marked  and  elaborate  civilities  that 
David  was  left  quite  out  in  the  cold,  and  felt  an  unwar¬ 
rantable  sting  to  which  he  could  not  have  given  its  right 
name. 

This  feeling  of  irritation  was  deepened  when,  after  din¬ 
ner,  Gussie  left  him  alone  with  his  host,  to  follow  Mrs. 
Hodson  and  her  daughters  to  the  drawing-room.  Mr.  Hod- 
son  was  spending  his  after-dinner  eloquence  in  animated 
description  of  the  advantages  to  be  gained  by  subscription 
to  a  new  Portuguese  loan  just  brought  out,  a  subject  which 
could  not  be  expected  to  have  any  attraction  for  G  ussie, 
who  never  had  sixpence  to  spare. 

“  Why  don’t  you  go  in  for  it  now,  Glyn?”  said  the  stock* 


DORISES  FORTUNE, 


71 


broker,  with  open-hearted  persuasiveness.  Mr.  Hoc! son 
was  a  plausible,  enterprising  man,  with  quite  as  much  rel¬ 
ish  for  speculation  and  smart  strokes  of  business  as  he  had 
for  sensual  pleasures.  He  never  lost  a  chance  of  making  a 
client,  never  failed  to  do  his  best  for  him  and  himself  at 
the  same  time,  and  believed  as  faithfully  as  any  vicar  in  the 
philanthropic  nature  of  the  profession  by  which  he  lived. 
Beginning  life  with  the  meager  imperfect  education  of  the 
lower  middle-class,  his  active  shallow  understanding  had 
shown  him  the  way  to  extensive  though  superficial  self-im¬ 
provement.  He  had  forced  his  way  up  until  his  daring 
and  energy  had  gained  for  him  a  position  which  his  lack  of 
prudence  and  self-restraint  alone  prevented  from  becoming 
one  of  the  best  among  the  men  of  his  own  class.  Certain 
extravagant  expenses,  altogether  independent  of  his  estab¬ 
lishment  at  the  Lawns,  had  lately  made  him  more  actively 
philanthropies!  than  ever,  and  he  pressed  his  Portuguese 
loan  upon  David  Glyn’s  attention  with  the  affectionate  solici¬ 
tude  of  an  indulgent  father. 

“  I  have  no  money,  for  one  thing,  ”  said  David,  redden¬ 
ing  slightly. 

“  Well,  but  your  wife  has;  and  you  are  bound  to  see  that 
she  makes  the  best  possible  use  of  it.  Now,  if  you  were  to 
persuade  her  to  invest,  say  five  thousand  pounds,  in  this  loan 
(which  is  taking  very  well  with  the  public,  or  you  may  be 
sure  I  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  it),  in  a  week  or  two 
you  could  sell  out  at  a  profit,  for  the  shares  are  sure  to  go 
up,  and  you  could  make  your  wife  a  handsome  present  with 
the  fifty  or  sixty  pounds  you  would  make  on  the  transac¬ 
tion.  ” 

It  was  a  coarse  way  of  putting  it,  certainly.  But  his 
personal  friends — especially  those  who  were  also  personal 
friends  of  his  wife — did  not  expect  much  delicacy  of  feeling 
from  Mr.  Hodson;  and  David,  who  had,  for  some  reason, 
never  felt  the  disadvantage  of  being  the  poor  husband  of  an 
he:  ress  so  keenly  as  he  did  this  evening,  listened  indul¬ 
gently  to  the  suggestion,  and  felt  tempted. 

“  What  do  I  —what  should  1  risk?”  he  asked. 

“  Nothing— absolutely  nothing!”  was  the  warm  and 
prompt  reply. 

But  this  bait  was  just  too  large  to  swallow.  The  faint 
fire  of  interest  which  had  glowed  for  a  moment  in  David’s 
blue  eyes  faded  out  of  them  again. 


doris’s  eortuhe. 

- 

“  Wherever  you  risk  nothing  you  are  not  likely  to  gain 
much,  I  should  think,”  he  said  mildly.  “  An  undertaking 
with  absolutely  no  risk,  and  with  a  certain  prospect  of  a 
large  profit  would,  I  imagine,  be  kept  to  themselves  by  the 
members  of  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  not  be  offered  to 
ignorant  outsiders  like  me.” 

“  There  are  not  a  dozen  brokers  in  the  House  who  fully 
understand  its  advantages,”  said  Mr.  Hodson,  lowering  his 
voice  mysteriously,  as  if  disembodied  brokers  might  be  float¬ 
ing  about  in  the  air,  ready  to  snatch  up  and  convey  the 
precious  secret  to  their  brethren  still  in  the  flesh.  “  I  do 
not  attempt  to  deny,”  he  went  on  magnificently^  “  that,  if 
an  earthquake  like  the  one  at  Lisbon  were  to  come  off,  or 
the  King  of  Portugal,  who  is  as  healthy  as  you  or  I,  were 
to  die,  stocks  might  go  down  with  a  rush— and,  by  the  bye, 
that  earthquake,  remote  as  it  is  ” — Mr.  Hodson  had  not 
the  slightest  idea  how  remote — has  shaken  the  public 
confidence  in  Portugal.  But,  setting  aside  such  contingen¬ 
cies  as  those,  the  possibility  of  this  loan  not  proving  a  great 
success  is  very  small. 

“And,  in  the  event  of  its  not  proving  a  great  success, 
could  you  guarantee  me  a  certain  limit  to  my  loss?” 

“  I  will  absolutely  guarantee  you  against  loss,  and  under¬ 
take  to  bear  all  risk  of  loss  myself.  ” 

David  looked  at  him  again.  In  these  circumstances  the 
stock-broker,  who  had  all  the  plausible  bonhomie  necessary 
to  the  man  who  believes  he  extends  his  connection  out  of 
pure  good  nature,  must  really  be  putting  him  in  the  way  of 
a  good  thing;  for  the  trilling  commission  could  be  nothing 
to  a  man  so  w7eil  off  as  Mr.  Hodson.  David  had  a  couple 
of  hundreds  of  his  own  carefully  banked,  and  lie  resolved 
to  make  inquiries  of  some  more  disinterested  person  than 
his  host,  and,  if  he  found  his  own  money  would  cover  any 
possible  loss,  he  would  make  the  venture.  Having  fenced 
his  first  attempt  at  stock-gambling  with  all  the  precautions 
possible,  David  felt  that  he  should  like  the  excitement  of  it, 
though  this  was  not  one  of  the  reasons  he  put  forward  to 
support  his  determination. 

“  When  can  I  see  you  about  it — in  the  city,  I  mean,  sup¬ 
posing  I  make  up  my  mind  to — well,  not  risk  it,  as  you 
won't  allow  the  word,  but — ” 

“  Invest?  Any  time  to-morrow  between  ten  and  half 
past  five — and  as  early  as  you  can,  my  dear  boy,  for  the 


BORISES  FORTUNE. 


73 


shares  are  being  taken. up  at  a  great  rate.  If  you  like  to 
hold  them  a  month  "Dr  so,  I  can  guarantee  you  a  rise  of  at 
least  six  per-cent  ,  and  then — ” 

“  Thanks.  I  shouldn’t  risk  that,”  said  David,  quickly. 
He  had  the  instincts  of  a  cautious  gambler,  and,  though  his 
end  is  generally  much  the  same  as  that  of  his  more  dashing 
fellow-t'ool,  his  first  ventures  bear  a  much  less  alarming  ap¬ 
pearance. 

The  two  men  made  their  way  to  the  drawing-room,  where 
Gussie  was  sitting  on  a  foot-stool,  hugging  his  knees  like  a 
great  school  boy;  Mrs.  Hodson  was  leaning  back  in  a  low 
chair,  fanning  herself  with  a  large  light  fan,  and  the  little 
girls,  prim  and  proper  as  ever,  held  each  a  bright  drawing¬ 
room  book,  while  their  ears  were  open  for  everything  that 
went  on  around  them. 


CHAPTER  X. 

“  I  have  been  proving  to  our  friend  Glyn  the  advantage 
of  having  an  astute  member  of  the  Stock  Exchange  for  a 
friend,”  said  Mr.  Hodson,  as  he  went  into  the  drawing¬ 
room. 

“  Talking  Portuguese  loan  to  him,  I  suppose  that 
means,”  said  his  wife,  in  her  usual  genial  tones. 

“  You  know  all  about  it  then?”  asked  David. 

Mrs.  Hodson  was  one  of  those  vivacious,  much-flattered 
ladies  who  believe  themselves  to  be  competent  to  pass  an 
opinion  upon  most  subjects,  and  who  consider  the  rest  not 
worth  passing  an  opinion  upon. 

“  Of  course  I  do.  Mr.  Hodson  never  takes  up  anything 
important  without  consulting  me.” 

It  was  true;  this  inconsistent  gentleman  being  proud  of 
his  wife,  and  placing  a  superstitious  faith  in  her  loudly  ex¬ 
pressed  convictions. 

“And  what  do  you  think  of  it?”  asked  David,  failing 
into  the  same  error. 

“  I  think  it  is  a  good  thing  undoubtedly,”  said  she.  with 
as  much  confidence  as  if  Portugal  had  been  her  own  private 
property. 

It  was  the  feather  that  turned  the  scale.  David  made 
an  appointment  with  Mr.  Hodson  for  the  next  morning  be- 


74 


Doris's  fortune. 


fore  they  went  into  the  billiard-room.  David  did  not  care 
for  billiards,  and  he  felt  besides  that  he  was  leaving  Doris 
alone  too  long.  But  he  wanted  an  opportunity  of  asking 
Mrs.  Hodson  about  the  dog  he  was  to  bring  her,  and  he  felt 
also  an  unavowed  curiosity  as  to  whether  young  Melton  had 
been  asked  to  extend  his  impromptu  visit.  So  the  whole 
party  left  the  drawing-room  together,  and  David  played  a 
game  with  Mr.  Hodson,  who  beat  him  easily;  while  Ethel, 
the  younger  of  the  little  girls,  was  set  to  “  mark."  Her 
father  took  a  special  delight  in  appointing  her  to  this  work, 
as  she  disliked  it,  and  as  it  afforded  him  an  opportunity  of 
teasing  her  by  peering  into  her  face  with  his  short-sighted 
eyes  ciose  to  hers,  or  of  chucking  her  under  the  chin  to 
upset  her  dignity,  with  the  playful  question,  ‘‘Now  then. 
Ugly,  what's  the  game?"  Ihese  attentions  the  prim  little 
girl  received  much  as  the  Princess de  Lamballemay  be  sup¬ 
posed  to  have  received  those  of  the  Republican  mob. 

David,  having  covered  himself  with  discredit,  yielded 
up  his  cue  to  Gussie,  who  was  a  fair  player;  while  Mr. 
Hodson  retired  in  favor  of  his  favorite  daughter  Nellie, 
who,  showing  unexpected  skill  and  neatness,  and  being 
complimented  thereon  by  the  gentlemen,  vras  promptly 
snubbed  by  her  mother  for  chalking  her  cue  “  like  a  bil¬ 
liard-marker."  However,  Mrs.  Hodson  could  not  prevent 
die  young  men  from  considering  the  girl,  after  this,  with 
more  attention.  Gussie,  in  particular,  watching  Nellie's 
round  young  face  flushed  with  the  excitement  of  the  game, 
made  up  his  mind  that  she  would  grow  into  a  pretty  girl 
by  and  by,  when  time  and  necessity  should  have  got  the 
better  of  the  maternal  instinct  for  keeping  daughters  young 
by  clothing  them  in  m’sshapen  garments.  David  meanwhile 
had  f  )und  an  opportunity  of  getting  from  his  hostess  exact 
details  concerning  the  King  Charles  spaniel  he  was  to  bring 
her;  but  it  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock  before  he  discovered 
that  he  had  scarcely  left  himself  time  to  catch  the  last  train 
from  Richmond. 

“  You  will  walk  as  far  as  the  station  wi(h  me,  Melton, 
won't  you?"  he  asked,  as  he  shook  hands  with  the  little 
girls. 

“  Oh,  I  don't  think  he  1*3  well  enough  for  us  to  let  him 
off  the  sick-list  yet!  He  had  better  stay  here  anotner 
night,"  interposed  Mrs.  Hodson  hospitably. 

“  Oh,  nonsense!  He  isn't  made  of  gingerbread,  a  great 


doris’s  fortuke. 


75 


broad-shouldered  lad  like  that!”  said  David  half  playfully, 
but  half  angrily  too. 

And  Gussie,  who -had  wavered  for  a  moment,  at  once 
declared  that  he  was  quite  well,  and  must  get  back  to  town 
that  night. 

“  Are  you  still  living  with  your  mother,  Melton?”  asked 
David,  when  the  hospitable  leave-taking  was  over,  Mr. 
Hodson  had  called  out  a  last  injunction  to  Glyn  not  to  be 
late  at  his  office,  and  the  two  young  men  were  walking  fast 
toward  Richmond  Station. 

“  No,  not  just  now,”  answered  the  other  rather  hastily. 
“  My  mother  is  at  Torquay,  staying  with  some  relatives,  so 
I’m  on  my  own  hook  at  present.  Nice  people  the  Hodsons 
are — make  one  so  welcome!” 

“  Yes;  it’s  quite  the  pleasantest  house  I  know.” 

And  they  walked  on  together  without  David’s  having  the 
penetration  to  wonder  why  Gussie  had  answered  his  ques¬ 
tion  so  shortly. 

Indeed  David  had  enough  to  occupy  his  mind;  for  he 
felt  a  little  conscience-stricken  at  having  left  Doris  so  long 
alone;  when  he  had  not  even  positively  told  her  that  he 
should  not  return  to  dinner.  So  he  parted  with  Gussie  with 
a  vaguely-expressed  hope  that  he  should  see  him.  again 
soon,  and  an  inward  wish  that  the  meeting  might  not  take 
place  at  the  Lawns. 

Doris  met  her  husband  at  the  gate  of.  Fairleigh;  she  ut¬ 
tered  a  little  cry  as  he  came  near,  but  did  not  come  out  to 
him.  Not  quite  easy  in  his  conscience,  David  stopped  with 
a  half-offended  air,  thinking  he  was  in  for  a  wifely  lecture, 
and  putting  himself  at  once  on  the  defensive.  But  the  tone 
in  which  she  almost  sobbed  out  “  Oh,  David!”  reassured 
him.  It  was  the  unmistakable  cry  of  relief  from  heart-felt 
anxiety.  He  came  up  at  once  to  the  gate,  and,  putting  his 
hand  down  upon  hers,  which  touched  the  latch,  felt  that 
she  was  cold  and  trembling. 

“  Why,  child,  what  is  the  matter  with  you?”  he  asked, 
in  his  usual  calm,  sweet  voice. 

“  I — I  didn’t  know  where  you  were.  I  thought  some¬ 
thing  must  have  happened  to  you.  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you 
are  safe,  so  glad  that  I  can’t  speak!” 

“  Silly  girl!  Didn’t  you  know  that  I  was  going  to  the 
Lawns  to  see  Gussie  Melton;  and  don’t  you  think  you 


76 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


might  have  had  the  sense  to  guess  I  should  have  to  stay  to 
dinner?” 

46  Yes,  I  know  it  was  very  silly  of  me  to  he  frightened. 
I  am  ashamed  of  myself  already.  But  you  shall  see,  David, 
I  won’t  tease  you  by  such  foolishness  again,”  said  she  apolo¬ 
getically. 

Her  husband  almost  thought  for  the  moment  that  there 
must  be  a  little  veiled  bitterness  in  her  simple  words;  but 
he  did  not  understand  the  full  force  of  the  rigid  notions  of 
wifely  duty  which  Mrs.  Edgcombe  had  instilled  into  her 
granddaughter. 

“  And  how  is  poor  Gussie?”  she  asked,  as  she  walked 
quickly  back  into  the  house  by  her  husband’s  side,  avoid¬ 
ing  his  touch  for  fear  he  should  find  out  how  cold  she  was. 

Oh,  he  is  all  right!  He  went  back  to  town  to-night!” 

“  Do  you  know  his  address,  David:  The  poor  boy  .is  in 
difficulties,  I  am  afraid;  and  I  want  to  help  him — if  I  can 
do  it  without  hurting  his  feelings.” 

“  His  feelings?  I  don’t  suppose  he  is  particularly  sensi¬ 
tive.  He  is  nothing,  it  seems  to  me,  but  a  gawky,  ill-man¬ 
nered  young  cub,  and  would  be  ready  enough  to  force  him¬ 
self  and  his  grievances  upon  any  one,  I  have  no  doubt.” 

David  spoke  with  more  irritation  than  Doris  had  ever 
heard  in  his  tones  before,  and  she  uttered  her  next  words 
apologetically. 

“  Of  course,  if  ’  you  would  rather  not  let  me  help  him, 
I—” 

“  Oh,  no,  you  can  help  him,  of  course,  if  you  wish!  It  is 
very  kind  of  you  to  think  of  it.  I  will  find  out  where  he 
lives  from  Papillon.” 

Doris  said,  46  Very  well,  David,”  but  was  puzzled  by  her 
husband’s  manner.  A  certain  reserve,  founded  by  David’s 
own  somewhat  phlegmatic  taciturnity  and  increased  by  his 
wife’s  respect,  had  always  existed  between  them;  but,  al¬ 
though  it  had  before  now  disturbed  her  womanly  dreams  of 
the  complete  confidence  which  should  subsist  between  hus¬ 
band  and  wife,  this  was  the  first  occasion  upon  which  it 
ha  1  cost  Doris  absolute  pain.  It  flashed  at  once  into  her 
mind  that  he  must  have  met  with  some  disagreeable  ex¬ 
perience,  from  the  result  of  which  lie  was  still  suffering. 
Gussie  had  probably  broken  out  again,  and  in  spite  of  all 
his  penitence  to  her  the  night  before,  had  again  insulted 
David,  who  could  not  quite  hide  his  disgust  at  the  foolish 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


77 


young  man's  conduct.  She  resolved  to  give  Gussie  a  still 
more  severe  scolding  than  before,  and  in  the  meantime  she 
thought  it  best  to  turn  from  the  distasteful  subject. 

“  Did  you  meet  some  nice  people,  David?  Charlie  says 
there  are  always  nice  people  at  Mrs.  Hodson's  house,”  she 
said,  as  they  went  through  the  hall  to  the  drawing-room. 

“  There  was  no  one  there  except  Melton.” 

“  What  is  this  great  attraction  which  makes  the  Lawns 
quite  a  celebrated  place?”  she  asked  playfully. 

Doris  had  no  thought  of  being  jealous;  but  David,  who 
had  conventional  ideas  about  women,  could  conceive  of  no 
other  motive  for  her  question,  and  answered,  guardedly: 

“  There  are  sometimes  pretty  girls  among  the  visitors; 
that,  I  should' think,  is  the  attraction  for  Papillon.  For  us 
greedy  fogies  the  great  charm  of  the  place  is  Mr.  Hodson's 
wines. '' 

Doris  laughed. 

“He  is  a  very  amusing  man  to  men,  isn't  he?  It  is 
funny  to  see  him  eat,  Charlie  says,  without  paying  any  at¬ 
tention  to  anybody.” 

“  That  is  Charlie's  view.  He  is  a  clever  man  of  business, 
though,  and  I  propose,  with  your  sanction,  to  invest  some 
money  of  yours  in  a  very  profitable  manner  to-morrow, 
under  his  direction.” 

“My  sanction,  David.  My  marriage  gave  complete 
sanction  to  anything  you  please  to  do  with  the  money;  it  is 
yours,  and  you  understand  what  to  do  with  it  better 
than  L'' 

Doris  never  doubted  that  business  capacity  came  as  in¬ 
stinctively  to  a  man  as  she  understood  that  a  knowledge  of 
housekeeping  came  to  a  woman.  She  asked  for  no  details, 
and  went  upstairs  happily,  quite  as  satisfied  that  the  im¬ 
maculate  David  could  do  nothing  foolish  as  that  he  could 
think  nothing  wrong. 

It  was  not  until  nearly  a  week  later  that  Doris  learned 
Gussie  Melton's  address  from  David,  who  brought  it  from 
Papillon,  with  the  tidings  that  Gussie  was  ill  with  rheu¬ 
matic  fever,  and  alone,  in  lodgings  in  town. 

“  I  think  it  would  be  only  kind  if  you  were  to  pay  him 
a  visit,  Doris,”  continued  David,  who  was  rather  conscience- 
stricken  at  having  advised  Gussie 's  .departure  from  the  hos¬ 
pitable  shelter  of  the  Lawns.  “  It  is  a  lonely  thing  to  be  ill 


78 


doris's  fortune. 

in  a  dark  London  lodging.  I  know  that  myself,  by  ex¬ 
perience." 

Doris  acquiesced  in  this  most  heartily;  and  the  very  next 
day  she  went  by  train  up  to  town,  called  on  Mrs.  Edg- 
combe,  her  grandmother,  and  then  went  off  with  the  old 
lady  to  the  dingy  bouse  in  a  dingy  West-end  street,  where 
they  were  surprised  to  find  that  the  fastidious  Gussie  occu¬ 
pied  only  one  room  on  the  top  floor. 

Mr.  Melton  was  alone,  the  servant  said;  she  believed  he 
was  very  iil;  no  one  had  been  to  see  him  except  the  doctor 
and  one  other  gentleman. 

“  You  had  better  wait  for  me  down  here,  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Edgcombe  to  Doris.  “  I  will  go  up  and  see  him." 

But  Gussie  got  so  excited  on  hearing  that  Mrs.  Glyn  was 
in  the  house,  and  begged  so  hard  to  see  her  “  just  for  a 
moment,"  that  Doris  had  to  come  up  too. 

“  You  can't  be  very  comfortable  here  surely!"  said  she, 
when  she  had  shaken  his  hot  hand,  trying  to  stop  his  inco¬ 
herent  outburst  of  gratitude. 

“  No,  no;  it  was  horrible  until  you  came;  but  I  shall 
love  this  room  now  you've  been  in  it — both  ot*  you,"  he  add¬ 
ed,  hastily,  as  his  feverishly  bright  eyes  glanced  quickly 
from  Doris  to  the  old  lady,  who  seemed  much  astonished 
by  his  vehemence.  “  You  don't  know,  Mrs.  Edgcombe,  how 
good  she  has  been  to  me,  and  when  I  didn't  in  the  least  de¬ 
serve  it.  I've  thought  it  all  over  again  and  again  while 
I’ve  been  lying  here,  until  I  think,  if  you  hadn't  come  like 
this  to-day,  I  should  have  been  obliged  to  crawl  up  and 
get  to  Fairleigh  to  thank  you — I  should  indeed!" 

“  What  is  all  this?  What  is  it  my  granddaughter  has 
done  for  you?"  asked  Mrs.  Edgcombe,  with  dignity. 

“It  is  nothing  at  all,  grandmamma:  Gussie  is  wander¬ 
ing  a  little  this  afternoon,"  said  Doris,  laughing  gently. 

“  No,  I'm  not  wandering,  Mrs.  Edgcombe.  Doris  helped 
me  out  of  my  difficulties;  she  sent  me  money — yes,  money — 
I'm  not  ashamed  of  owning  it.  I  would  accept  anything 
from  you  as  I  would  from  an  angel  from  heaven.  Papillou 
brought,  it  me  in  a  letter  from  her.  And  after  all  my  rude¬ 
ness  and  petulance!  No  woman  but  Doris  would  have 
done  it." 

He  spoke  hotly,  impetuously,  like  the  overgrown  boy  he 
was.  Mrs.  Edgcombe  was  touched,  and  gave  a  little  soft 
laugh  that  suggested  something  sweeter  than  merriment. 


BORISES  FORTUNE. 


79 


Doris  was  always  good,”  she  said. 

Yes;  and  nobody  else  knows  how  good  except  me/’ 

“  And  her  husband,”  corrected  the  precise  old  lady. 
There  was  a  momentary  pause  in  the  excitement  of  the 
dialogue,  which  plainly  intimated  that  Gussie  did  not  ac¬ 
cept  the  amendment.  But  the  old  lady  was  not  going  to  ac¬ 
cept  contradiction  from  this  lad. 


“  Doris  is  a  lucky  woman  to  have  secured  a  husband 
worthy  of  her,”  said  she,  with  grave  obstinacy. 

Gussie  was  obstinate  too. 

“  No  man  is  worthy  of  her,”  he  said  hardily. 

Doris  did  not  think  Gussie ’s  opinion  of  enough  value  for 
her  to  be  more  than  amused  by  this  little  skirmish;  but 
Mrs.  Edgcombe,  who  took  things  more  seriously,  sent  her 
granddaughter  down-stairs  first,  when  their  visit  came  to 
an  end,  and  stood  by  the  invalid's  bed  somewhat  magisteri¬ 
ally. 


“  Do  you  know,  young  gentleman,  that  it  is  not  a  wise 
or  a  right  thing  to  do  to  shake  the  pedestal  on  which  a 
young  husband  stands  in  the  heart  of  his  young  wife. 
He’ll  come  down  quite  soon  enough,  you  may  be  sure.” 

I  quite  agree  with  you,  Mrs.  Edgcombe;  and  I  think 
there’s  no  time  to  be  lost  in  bringing  him  down  gently,  to 
save  his  coming  down  with  a  rush.” 

“  What  do  you  mean?” 

“  That  I  know  what  men  are,  and  don’t  care  to  see  them 
worshiped  for  what  they  are  not.  And,  if  you  want  to  see 
Mr.  David  Glyn  off  his  pedestal,  see  him  at  the  Lawns.” 

Mrs.  Edgcombe  was  too  proud  to  ask  another  question, 
preferring  to  treat  the  young  man’s  bold  assertion  as  an  in¬ 
valid’s  hallucination.  She  instantly  turned  the  subject  by 
asking  if  she  should  come  again  to  see  him,  and  then  went 
slowly  down-stairs,  considering  the  startling  information 
she  had  just  received.  She  was  not  personally  acquainted 
with  Mrs.  Hodson,  but  knew  of  her  as  a  pleasure-loving 
matron  of  whom  no  one  said  anything  worse  than  that  she 
declined  to  sink  into  middle  age.  Leaving  David  Glyu’s 
estimable  character  out  of  the  question,  it  seemed  absurd 
to  imagine  such  a  woman  the  rival  of  his  beautiful  and 
sweet  young  wife.  Nevertheless  the  matter  had  to  be 
sifted,  and  they  were  no  sooner  in  the  brougham  than  Mrs, 
Edgcombe  began  the  process. 


80 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


“  You  and  David  see  a  good  deal  of  the  Hodsons,  my 
dear,  don't  you?’' 

44  Oh,  no  -at  least  I  don't!  I've  never  seen  Mr.  Hodson, 
and  Mrs.  Hodson  only  once  since  our  marriage.  David 
sees  more  of  them  than  I  do;  he's  gone  down  there  to-day." 

44  Gone  there  to-day!  Without  you?" 

44  Oh,  I  told  him  I  should  stay  in  town  to  dine  with  you!" 

44  And  he  will  come  and  take  you  home,  of  course?" 

44  No,  it  is  so  far  to  come.  I  told  Charlie  Papillon  to 
come  and  fetch  me." 

4 4  Oh,  it  is  very  convenient  for  your  husband  to  have  a 
band  of  obliging  young  gentlemen  always  ready  to  take  the 
trouble  of  looking  after  you  off  his  hands!" 

44  Dear  grandmamma,  it  was  my  own  proposal,"  said 
Doris,  gently.  44 1  wanted  to  see  Charlie." 

44  And  David  wanted  to  see — whom?  Mrs.  Hodson?" 

Doris  laughed. 

44  No,  Mr.  Hodson.  They  have  been  doing  some  busi¬ 
ness  together  lately.  David  has  great  confidence  in  his 
judgment." 

This  seemed  such  a  reasonable  explanation  of  the  ground 
of  Gussie's  fancies  that  Mrs.  Edgcombe  drove  home  with 
her  granddaughter  somewhat  comforted. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Of  course  David  Glyn,  having  tasted  the  sweets  of  Stock 
Exchange  speculation,  did  not  stop  at  his  first  venture. 
He  made  a  little  money  by  it — not  indeed  so  much  as  the 
sanguine  Mr.  Hodson  had  predicted,  but  still  enough  to 
confirm  his  faith  in  that  gentleman  as  a  safe  leader  to  that 
elysium  of  independence  of  one's  wife's  fortune  which  is 
the  sure  reward  of  intelligent  investment  on  the  Stock  Ex¬ 
change. 

For  David  felt  the  galling  chain  of  his  wife's  wealth  more 
and  more  heavily  as  the  feeble  loyalty — which  was  all  that 
remained  of  the  love  of  his  passionless  marriage — daily 
diminished.  She  was  cold,  he  said  to  himself,  to  excuse 
the  tepid  ness  of  his  own  feelings  toward  her,  the  perfunc¬ 
tory  caresses  which  sometimes  brought  the  troubled  look  of 
a  puzzled  child  into  his  wife’s  face,  and  increased  her  re¬ 
serve  toward  him  until  it  became  a  constraint  that  was  al¬ 
most  fear. 


Doris’s  fortune. 


81 


Doris  liad  been  married  six  months,  and  David’s  in¬ 
difference  had  been  increasing  rapidly  for  more  than  four 
before  the  young  wife  dared  to  own,  even  to  herself,  that 
there  was  a  gult  between  her  and  David,  widening  so  surely 
that  she  felt  that  in  a  short  time  there  would  be  no  person 
of  all  her  acquaintance  with  whom  she  had  so  little  sym- 
'  pathy,  or  from  whom  she  could  expect  so  little,  as  her  own 
husband. 

At  first  she  tried  to  stave  off  this  knowledge  with  the 
common-sense  argument  that  the  honev-moon  was  a  season 
when  every  man  allowed  himself  a  little  extravagance  of 
tenderness  which  must  calm  down  with  the  wear  and  t(  ar 
of  every-day  life  together.  But  then  had  David  shown 
much  extravagance  of  affection?  Doris  was  a  very  innocent 
woman,  a  particularly  correct  and  well-brought-up  woman, 
knowing  little  of  the  nature  of  the  passions,  or  even  of  the 
affections,  and  not  unduly  curious  to  know  more;  but  even 
she  could  noc  help  feeling  that,  if  the  calmly  kind  atten¬ 
tions  Da  id  had  paid  her  during  the  first  three  or  four 
weeks  of  marriage  had  really  been  an  unaccustomed  over¬ 
flow  of  tenderness,  then  the  every-day  stream  of  his  affection 
could  not  be  a  very  copious  one. 

She  too  had  entered  into  marriage  calmly,  schooled  by  her 
practica.  grandmother  into  thinking  more  of  the  duties 
than  of  the  pleasures  of  her  new  life.  But  the  duties  were 
so  light  that  she  had  time  to  find  that  there  was  a  void  in 
her  heart,  and  that  the  evenings  she  spent  with  her  hus¬ 
band  were  scarcely  less  solitary  than  the  mornings  spent 
without  him.  However  he  did  not  seem  to  be  unhappy — 
that  was  one  comfort;  the  “  business  ”  which  was  now  his 
constant  excuse  for  abstraction,  in  her  presence,  or  for  an 
occasional  evening  spent  away  from  her,  had  evidently 
awakened  a  strong  new  interest  in  life  for  him;  and  Doris 
tried  to  be  glad  that  at  least  the  care  of  her  money  had 
given  him  an  interesting  occupation,  if  her  society  had 
small  attraction  for  him.  She  was  not  suspicious  at  all, 
by  nature  or  by  habit;  she  was  not  jealous — yet.  So  she 
remained  perfectly  docile,  perfectly  good-humored,  and  was 
e^en  meek-spirited  enough  to  be  thankful  that  her  docility 
did  not  irritate  him. 

Davdd,  on  ?  he  other  hand,  was  far  less  easy  of  mind  than 
she.  He  knew  by  this  time  that  the  influence  of  Mrs. 
Hodson  was  far  stronger  upon  him  than  that  of  his  wJEe; 


82 


DORIS'S  FOliTUKE. 


but  then,  as  it  was  perfectly  innocent  and  even  helpful  in 
maintaining  his  respect  for  Doris,  whom  Mrs.  Hodson  was 
most  careful  to  praise,  he  did  not  blame  himself  on  that  ac¬ 
count.  But  the  fever  for  speculation  was  growing  upon 
him.  Always  with  Doris's  sanction,  too  easily  got  to  be 
valued,  he  had  by  this  time  plunged  pretty  heavily  into  in¬ 
vestments,  sometimes  fortunate,  perhaps  more  often 
otherwise,  which  involved  continual  intercourse  with  Mr. 
Hodson,  now  his  recognized  man  of  business,  and  kept  him 
in  a  constant  intoxication  of  excitement  which  it  required 
a  more  mature  mind  than  Doris's  to  soothe.  So  he  told 
himself,  so  he  thought;  and  he  carried  his  feverish  troubles 
to  Mrs.  Hodson’s  kindly  ear,  and  allowed  her  to  soothe  him 
until  it  was  time  to  return  to  Fairleigh,  in  a  state  of  torpid 
reaction  from  excitement  which,  while  insuring  domestic 
peace,  was  quite  incompatible  with  domestic  joys. 

“  You  are  late  this  evening,  David,"  Doris  plucked  up 
courage  to  say  one  December  day,  when  her  husband  came 
home,  flushed  and  absent  at  eight  o’clock,  after  having 
ordered  dinner  for  half  past  six.  Her  heart  was  beating 
violently  as  she  made  the  timid  accusation,  the  first  meek 
revolt  that  she  had  ever  attempted. 

“  Yes,  I  am  late,  and  I  am  very  hungry,"  he  answered, 
rather  shortly,  sensitively  aggrieved  at  her  hint  of  insubor¬ 
dination. 

But  she  felt  that  he  was  in  the  wrong;  and  when  they 
were  seated  at  dinner,  and  he  had  satisfied  the  first  pangs 
of  a  hunger  which  did  not  seem  to  be  so  very  acute  after 
all,  she  returned  to  the  charge  with  the  steady  persistency 
of  the  meek  person  roused. 

“  You  have  been  very  often  late  these  last  few  weeks, 
David,  and,  when  you  do  come,  you  seem  tired  and  wor¬ 
ried.  I  am  afraid  this  ‘  business'  you  have  grown  so  fond 
of  is  not  good  for  you." 

Her  hands  trembled  as  she  crumbled  up  her  bread  and 
looked  steadily  into  the  fire  that  blazed  into  the  oaken- tiled 
fire-place  by  which  she  now  so  often  sat  brooding  hour 
after  hour. 

David  looked  up  at  her  from  the  cutlet  he  was  eating, 
and  a  cold  light  seemed  to  shine  from  his  blue  eves  as  she 
glanced  at  him,  which  gave  her  a  sudden  shock  and  made 
her  turn  her  face  quickly  again  to  the  fire. 


DORISES  FOKTUHE.  83 

“  If  you  are  dissatisfied  with  my  management  of  your 
affairs;  of  course  you  have  only  to  say  so,  Doris.  ” 

She  half  started  from  her  chair,  her  face  on  fire,  tears  in 
her  eyes;  then,  suppressing  the  sob  which  rose  to  her  lips, 
she  sat  down  again,  and  for  a  moment  did  not  speak  oc 
look  at  him.  'he  habit  of  self-control,  carefullv  instilled 

J  1/ 

by  her  educaticr  'elped  her  to  bear  the  first  deep  wound 
she  had  ever  received. 

“  You  are  cruel — and  unjust,”  she  said  at  last,  in  a  low 
voice.  “  Whatever  you  do,  I  always  accept  as  right — it  is 
right  for  me.  ‘  Affairs/  ‘  business,’  are  mere  woras  to  me, 
I  know  nothing  about  them.  But  to  see  you  looking  worn 
out  and  harassed  through  looking  after  my  interests  hurts 
me  very  much.  Your  health  and  your  happiness  do  con¬ 
cern  me —surely  you  will  allow  that?  Why  don’t  you  leave 
the  business  to  Mr.  Hodson?” 

“  That  would  scarcely  be  a  conscientious  way  of  going  to 
work,  Doris,”  said  David,  disarmed,  but  still  rather  stiff 
and  constrained  through  the  feeling  that  his  words  were 
not  quite  honest. 

“  But  if  I  don’t  mind !  If  I  would  rather  have  vou  home 
a  little  earlier,  and  see  you  a  little  less  tired,  and — and 
worn  out,  than  have  you  working  and  worrying  yourself  to 
make  me  richer!  What  do  we  want  with  more  money? 
We  have  already  more  than  enough. ” 

“  I  have  always  looked  upon  your  money  as  a  trust, 
Doris,”  said  David,  in  his  old  sweet  voice.  “  I  should  not 
feel  happy  without  doing  my  best  with  it.” 

Doris  thought  this  was  a  perverse  way  of  looking  at 
things,  and,  if  she  had  known  that  at  that  moment,  through 
her  husband  “  doing  his  best,”  she  was  risking  the  loss  of 
some  thousands,  she  might  have  felt  strengthened  in  this 
view. 

“  I  feel  at  the  same  time  that  you  are  justided  in  accus¬ 
ing  me  of  being  dull  company,”  he  went  on,  musically. 

“  Accusing  you!  Oh,  no,  indeed;  I  never  thought  of 
such  a  thing!”  protested  she. 

“  Well,  well,  you  said  1  was  dull,  and  I  admit  it,”  he 
corrected,  with  the  excessive  magnanimity  of  the  person 
who  knows  himself  to  be  in  the  wrong.  “  I  am  rather  a 
fogy,  and  my  society  must  be  tedious,  1  know.  Let  us  sit 
down  after  dinner  and  concoct  invitations  to  all  the  n  ee 
people  we  know,  and  fill  the  house  for  Christmas- time. 


84 


PORIS'g  ^  FORTUNE. 


There  are  Melton  and  Papillon  and  Hilda  Warren;  let  us 
have  them  all,  and  as  many  more  as  you  can  think  of.  and 
we'll  see  if  we  can't  make  the  place  more  cheerful  than  a 
solemn  old  husband  can  hope  to  do.  " 

He  had  carried  the  war  into  the  enemy's  camp,  silenced 
her  by  his  pathetic,  implied  reproach  to  h^r  for  not  being 
content  with  silent  devotion.  Doris  chilled;  she  did 
not  attempt  to  rebut  his  unjust  accusation,  but  contented 
herself  with  the  usual  dull  interchange  of  desultory  remarks 
about  the  quantity  of  ice  in  the  creek  that  morning  and  the 
lameness  of  one  of  the  carriage-horses,  until  dinner  was 
over,  and  they  went  into  the  drawing-room. 

It  had  been  a  freak  of  Doris's  to  spend  the  winter  in  this 
big  river-side  house,  instead  of  going  up  to  town,  where 
her  grandmother  wanted  them  to  take  a  house  near  her. 
The  solitary  young  wife  had  repented  some  weeks  before  of 
this  arrangement;  but  she  would  not  propose  an  alteration 
for  fear  of  being  charged  with  caprice.  As  she  led  the  way 
through  the  square  comfortable  hall  with  its  dark  curtains, 
the  fire-light  bickering  and  hashing  on  the  oak  doors  and 
wainscoting,  the  remembrance  of  the  old  place  as  it  used  to 
be  in  the  days  before  her  marriage,  with  laughing  girls  and 
ubiquitous  young  men  filling  each  room  with  life  and  gay- 
ety,  suddenly  came  upon  her  so  vividly,  in  contrast  to  her 
present  solitary  seclusion  with  a  husband  who  was  practical¬ 
ly  to  her  little  more  than  an  animated  statue,  that  the  tears 
rushed  blindingly  to  her  eyes,  and  she  stopped,  leaning 
against  the  oak  taole. 

Her  husband,  who  was  following,  came  quickly  to  her 
side. 

“  What  is  the  matter,  my  darling?  Are  you  ill?"  he 
asked  tenderly,  passing  his  arm  round  her  for  support. 

She  leaned  against  him  gratefully,  encouraging  his  ca¬ 
resses,  as  she  faltered  out  that  there  was  nothing  the  matter 
with  her;  she  must  have  wTalked  too  far  that  morning — that 
was  all.  She  was  quite  well — sorry  to  have  frightened  him. 

He  dried  her  eyes,  whispering  loving  words  to  her,  and 
led  her  to  the  drawing-room;  there,  instead  of  taking  up  a 
book  and  remaining  silent  on  pretense  of  reading,  which 
had  become  a  too  oinmoii  practice  with  him  when  alone 
with  his  wife,  he  sat  on  the  sofa  near  the  lire  with  her,  and 
tried  his  best  to  be  entertaining,  and  succeeded  perfectly  in 
making  his  wife  happier  than  she  had  been  for  some  time. 


Boris's  fortuhe. 


t;5 

Unfortunately  for  the  success  of  this  experiment,  David 
found  it  exceedingly  irksome,  and  felt  glad  when  the  even¬ 
ing  was  over.  Poor  Doris's  gratefully  affectionate  mood, 
which  would  have  made  him  entirely  happy  if  his  conduct 
toward  her  had  been  altogether  right,  puzzled  him,  stung 
his  not  unsensitive  conscience,  and  long  before  eleven 
o'clock  began  to  bore  him  too. 

The  next  morning,  however,  when  the  night's  sleep  had 
distanced  the  remembrance  of  Mrs.  Hodson,  Doris's  fresli 
young  face,  made  more  beautiful  and  gentle  by  the  mem¬ 
ory  of  the  happy  evening  before,  won  upon  him,  and  in-* 
duced  him  to  make  a  faithful  promise  to  be  home  early,  so 
that  they  might  have  another  long  evening  together.  And, 
as  he  kissed  her  tenderly  before  leaving  for  town,  he  won¬ 
dered  how  he  could  have  found  the  evening  long,  and  made 
a  vague  resolve  to  keep  away  from  influences  which  tended 
to  separate  him  from  her. 

But  the  influences  were  not  to  be  kept  away  from.  When 
David  paid  his  usual  visit  to  Mr.  Hodson,  who  always  wait¬ 
ed  for  him  at  some  given  rendezvous  after  four  o'clock,  he 
found  that  Mrs.  Hodson  had  driven  up  to  town  to  fetch 
her  husband;  and,  as  that  husband  protested  that  he  had 
another  business  call  to  make  before  returning  home,  she 
commanded  rather  than  begged  David  to  come  as  far  as 
Piccadilly  with  her. 

He  made  a  faint  semblance  of  protest — had  promised  to 
be  home  early.  He  had  neglected  Doris  too  much  lately — 
she  was  dull  at  Fairleigh  alone — 

“  Of  course  she  is.  You  selfish  creature,  to  shut  up  a 
pretty  wife  in  a  big  dreary  old  house  by  the  river,  where  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  she  ended  by  drowning  herself  as  a  re¬ 
lief  from  your  prosy  society!  Take  Charlie  Papillon  down 
with  you,  and  she  will  forgive  you  for  being  a  few  minutes 
late.  Well,  and  now  tell  me  all  that  you  and  Bertram  have 
been  concocting  to-day." 

David  gave  her  a  full  account  of  some  new  speculation  on 
which  he  proposed  to  embark,  and  she,  with  a  parrot-like 
surface  knowledge  of  Stock-Exchange  business  and  busi¬ 
ness  terms,  picked  up  from  her  husband's  table-talk,  prated 
“  debentures  "  and  “  preference  shares  "  with  an  audacity 
so  adorable  that,  when  at  Thornhill's  she  took  a  violent 
fancy  to  a  silver-mounted  toilet  mirror  which  “Bertram's 
meanness  "  made  her  unable  to  buy,  he  found  the  tempta- 


86 


Boris's  fortukr. 

tion  to  give  it  to  her  too  strong  to  be  resisted.  He  had  a 
check-book  in  his  pocket — lie  had  just  been  settling  up 
with  Mr.  Hodson — so  he  wrote  out  a  check  for  thirteen 
guineas;  and  the  lady’s  child-like  delight  over  the  gift — a 
Christmas  present,  he  said  gayly — was  so  charming  and  so 

Sretty  that  it  was  not  until  he  had  left  her  at  the  corner  of 
ermyn  Street  that  he  had  time  to  remember,  even  vaguely, 
that  Mrs.  Hodson  was  not  a  proper  person  on  whom  to 
spend  Doris’s  money  It  was  past  six  already;  he  had 
promised  to  be  home  at  five.  There  was  nothing  left  for  it 
now  but  to  carry  out  Mrs.  Hodson’s  commands  and  take 
Charlie  Papillon  home  to  dinner.  The  spell  of  Doris’s 
bright  morning  face  was  broken,  and  he  felt  that  another 
evening  alone  with  her,  after  such  a  bad  start,  would  be 
more  wearisome,  more  fraught  with  blunted  but  sensible 
conscience-pangs,  than  the  last.  So  he  called  at  Charlie’s 
rooms —modest  ones  shared  with  a  friend,  and  brightened 
by  photographs  of  girls — on  the  chance  of  finding  him  there. 
He  was  fortunate.  Gussie,  having  borrowed  a  sovereign 
from  some  one,  had  just  called  to  take  Papillon  to  the  Cri¬ 
terion  to  dine.  But  both  young  men  were  delighted  to 
give  up  their  bachelor  dinner,  to  be  followed  by  the  theater 
to  go  and  see  Doris. 

Their  eagerness  amazed  David,  who  had  given  his  invita¬ 
tion  hesitatingly,  feeling  envious  of  the  programme  they 
had  set  themselves  and  sure  they  would  not  care  to  change 
it.  Melton  had  been  away  lately,  and  Charlie  had  grown 
rather  shy  of  visiting  unasked  the  young  household  where 
he  was  sharp  enough  to  see  that  all  was  not  going  on  rightly. 

Their  young  men’s  chatter  amused  David  and  kept  his 
thoughts  away  from  unpleasant  subjects  all  the  way  in  the 
train  down  to  Fairleigh.  “  Old  David,”  who  had  had  im¬ 
pecunious  days  himself,  insisted  on  paying  their  fares  him¬ 
self,  an  item  in  the  pleasure  of  the  excursion  to  be  duly 
considered  when  one  young  gentleman  had  in  the  pocket  of 
a  perfectly  made  coat  twopence  and  a  latch-key,  and  the 
other’s  borrowed  capital  of  a  sovereign  would  have  to  be 
made  somehow  to  last  for  pocket-money  a  week  at  least. 

So  they  all  three  marched  up  to  Fairleigh  in  high  good 
humor,  and  David  led  the  way  into  the  hall,  feeling  proud 
of  himself  for  having  with  much  neatness  got  out  of  a  little 
difficulty.  Doris’s  bright  sweet  voice  was  heard  faintly  in 
the  distance  as  they  came  in.  David’s  dull  ear  did  not  no- 


DORISES  FORT  CINE.  8? 

tice  that  its  tones  were  happier  than  they  had  been  for  some 
weeks.  To  the  other  two  young  men,  in  high  spirits  at  the 
thought  of  seeing  a  particular  favorite  and  altogether  jolly 
and  perfect  person,  of  course  it  came  with  no  deep  signifi¬ 
cance  at  all. 

“  Let’s  hide!”  said  Papillon. 

And  he  and  Gussie  scrambled  round  the  curtains  like  a 
pair  of  clumsy  kittens. 

Doris  came  into  the  hall  quickly,  all  in  white,  like  a  fairy 
with  the  soft  lamp-light  from  above  and  the  red  flames 
from  the  fire  casting  deep  shadows  and  faint  flickering  lights 
upon  her.  The  boys  saw  her,  and  were  sorry  for  their 
light-hearted  maneuvers,  as,  peeping  through  the  curtains, 
they  saw  on  her  face  a  lovely,  holy  joy  as  she  raised  her 
arms  toward  her  husband,  which  made  them  wish  David 
would  take  her  away  without  having  seen  them. 

But  on  David  himself  the  significance  of  her  expression 
was  lost,  or  else  he  would  not  read  it  aright.  He  took  her 
raised  hands  and  put  them  on  his  shoulders  as  he  kissed 
her. 

“  I  am  not  going  to  scold  you  for  being  late,”  she  said. 
“  I  am  sure  you  are  sorry.  And  we  will  have  another  hap¬ 
py  evening,  won’t  we?” 

“Yes,  my  dear,  I  hope  so,”  said  he,  in  his  sweet  voice; 
“  and  I  have  brought  two  naughty  boys  down  with  me  to 
share  it  with  us.” 

And  the  boys  saw  her  arms  suddenly  fall,  and  her  face 
change,  and,  without  knowing  why,  they  wished  they  had 
not  come. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Almost  before  Gussie  and  Charlie  had  had  time  to  note 
the  sudden  chill  on  her  face,  Doris  spoke,  in  a  voice  as  kind 
and  bright  as  usual: 

“I  think  I  can  guess  who  the  naughty  boys  are.  But 
what  have  you  done  with  them?” 

They  came  out  from  their  hiding-place,  and  she  greeted 
them  warmly,  and  scolded  them  playfully  for  neglecting 
Fairleigh  so  long.  Then  they  all  went  into  the  drawing¬ 
room,  and,  as  there  was  half  an  hour  to  spare  before  din¬ 
ner,  Doris  sunk  down  carelessly,  as  in  the  old  days,  on  the 
bearth-rug,  and  sat  there  with  one  of  the  young  men  on 


88 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


each  side  of  her,  “  to  talk  about  nothing,  Doris,  just  as  if 
you  weren’t  married  at  all,”  as  Charlie  said. 

“  Don’t  you  remember  how  we  used  to  scramble  up  in  a 
hurry,  if  we  heard  grandmamma’s  step  outside,  for  fear  she 
should  scold  me  for  behavior  ‘  more  like  a  tomboy  of  four¬ 
teen  than  a  lady  of  four-and-twenty,’  as  she  used  to  say?” 

“  Yes,  and  how  I  used  to  coax  her  into  forgiving  you 
when  you  behaved  ‘  in  a  manner  unbecoming  to  a  young 
gentlewoman.’  It  was  always  1  who  begged  you  off,  Doris 
— remember  that!”  said  Charlie,  sentimentally. 

“  Yes,  my  dear  Charlie — and  how  I  had  to  pay  for  that 
blessing  immediately  afterward  by  unlocking  the  cabinet 
where  I  keptrny  marrons  glacees .  Do  you  remember  that?” 

At  this  Gussie  began  to  jeer  and  gibe,  and  Charlie  wrig¬ 
gled  round  the  hearth-rug  with  the  intention  of  threatening 
him.  But,  suddenly  changing  his  tone,  he  wriggled  back 
again  and  said  haughtily: 

“ 1  despise  that  fellow.  Don’t  take  any  notice  of  him, 
Doris.  He  has  just  incurred  the  merited  contempt  of  all 
right-minded  persons  by  falling  in  love.” 

Doris  laughed,  while  Gussie  protested  violently,  and  even 
angrily. 

‘ 4  Well,  why  shouldn’t  he?  Is  it  a  crime  you  yourself 
have  never  been  guilty  of?” 

“Never,”  said  Charlie,  emphatically — “that  is,  seri¬ 
ously!  It  requires  a  lot  of  encouragement  on  one’s  own 
part  as  well  as  on  that  of  the  lady,  to  make  a  fellow  fall  in 
love  seriously;  and  that  encouragement  I  can  honestly  say 
I  have  always  denied  myself.  ” 

“  Oh,  Charlie,  this  is  heart-breaking!  Then  the  vows  and 
protestations  you  used  to  make  me  were  not  serious  after  all!” 

“  As  far  as  they  went — yes,”  admitted  he  unblushingly. 
“  In  fact,  my  worship  of  you  was  my  great  passion,  since 
which  my  heart  is  seared,  you  know — seared.  Now,  I  only 
philander.  When  I  find  my  heart  beating  a  little  too  fast 
for  Maud  I  take  a  turn  at  Helen.”  And  he  turned  up  the 
ends  of  his  long  mustache,  and  put  his  head  on  one  side  in 
a  rakish  manner. 

“  That  is  to  say,  when  you  have  spent  all  your  screw 
on  hansoms  and  ices  with  Hilda  Warren,  you  pass  a  little 
more  time  with  Hose  at  the  Criterion  bar,”  interposed 
Gussie,  bluntly. 

Tact  was  not  Gussie’s  strong  point,  and  he  was  angry, 


...  .  -  .  .  jrn.  ■-»*«  •  ..  — '  I  i  Mlf  II  >  if  f  _  th-  tu  MA  ■■  M 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


89 


rudely,  rustically  angry,  with  Charlie  for  his  bantering 
accusation. 

“  Whom  am  I  in  love  with?”  he  continued,  brusquely, 
since  neither  would  take  any  notice  of  his  last  remark. 

David  had  just  come  into  the  room,  and  was  sauntering 
up  to  the  group  on  the  hearth-rug,  with  the  amused 
paternal  smile  on  his  face  which  had  done  so  much  to  earn 
for  him  his  proud  title  of  44  Old  Davie.” 

My  dear  fellow,  don't  excite  yourself.  I  dare  say  it  is 
business  investments  that  take  you  down  to  the  Lawns.” 

“  The  Lawns!”  echoed  Gussie,  in  unmistakable  astonish¬ 
ment. 

4 4  Charlie's  large  round  blue  eyes  were  as  vacant  as  ever; 
but  the  change  that  instantly  passed  over  David's  face, 
which  he  could  see  reflected  m  the  glass  over  the  mantel¬ 
piece,  was  not  lost  upon  him. 

44 1  dare  say  it  is  pleasanter  to  discuss  business  there  than 
at  the  office,”  Charlie  went  on,  without  any  change  of 
tone. 

David  had  sat  down  in  an  arm-chair  close  to  the  group; 
and,  as  Charlie  was  the  nearest  to  him,  it  was  quite  natural 
for  the  younger  man  to  look  up  at  him  as  he  did  so,  quite 
natural  too  that  he  should  put  up  his  hand  and  give  that 
of  44  Old  Davie  ''  an  affectionate  pat. 

44  Of  course  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  (he  prospect  of  a 
charming  mother-in-law  that  tempts  you — '' 

44  Mother-in-law!  What  are  you  talking  about:''  Gussie 
cried,  hotly.  44  I  never  can  see  the  charm  people  talk 
about  in  a  made-up,  middle-aged  woman  like  that.  And  I 
give  you  my  word  I  haven't  the  least  idea  which  of  those 
dolly  little  girls  I  am  supposed  to  admire.” 

All  this  time  Charlie,  under  pretense  of  laughing  at 
Gussie,  was  glancing  up  at  David's  face,  watching  the  cloud 
that  was  gathering  there. 

44  Why  are  you  so  angry?  Why  do  you  let  him  tease 
you,  when  you  see  how  he  enjoys  it?”  said  Doris,  though 
she  too  could  not  help  laughing  at  the  young  fellow’s  im¬ 
petuous  displeasure.  44  Are  Mrs.  Hodson’s  daughters 
grown  up  then?''  she  asked  of  the  calmer  Charlie.  4k  I've 
seen  them  only  once,  and  (hen  they  were  quite  little  girls.” 

44  So  they  are,”  interposed  Gussie,  abruptly.  *4  One 
gives  them  sweets.'' 

44  To  please  mamma/'  added  Charlie,  demurely. 


90 


DORIS’S  FORTUNE. 


<e  It  wouldn’t  ‘  please  mamma  ’  to  pay  attention  to  her 
daughters,”  said  Gussie  still  hotly.  44  She  wants  all  the 
attention  herself.” 

44  What  nonsense,  Gussie!” 

44  It  isn’t  nonsense.  Every  man  who  goes  often  to  the 
Lawns  must  either  be  in  love  with  madame  or  pretend  to 
be.  We  call — they  call— the  Lawns  4  the  toll-gate.’  ” 

David  jumped  up  from  his  chair,  crying  abruptly,  “  Din¬ 
ner!”  They  all  scrambled  up  from  the  hearth-rug,  and, 
by  the  time  they  were  on  their  feet,  the  anticipated  dinner- 
bell  rang. 

The  volcanic  subject  of  the  Lawns  and  its  occupants  was 
wisely  avoided  during  dinner;  but,  when  Doris  had  left  the 
gentlemen  in  t]  e  dining-room  and  had  sat  down  in  the  arm¬ 
chair  David  had  occupied  during  the  discussion,  the  danger¬ 
ous  topic  was  brought  again  under  her  notice  in  a  rather 
abrupt  manner. 

44  You  don’t  really  believe  I  am  in  love  with  any  one  at 
the  Lawns,  do  you?”  asked  a  gruff  but  plaintive  voice  at 
her  side. 

She  looked  up  with  44  Oh!”  and  a  start  of  surprise  to  see 
Gussie,  flushed  and  troubled,  looking  down  at  her  with 
dog’s  eyes  of  humble  devotion.  He  had  slunk  in  so  quietly, 
he  looked  so  much  disturbed,  that  Doris  for  a  few  moments 
could  only  look  at  him  and  laugh  indignantly,  as  at  the 
unexpected  caress  of  a  spoiled  Newfoundland. 

44  Why  shouldn’t  you  be?”  she  asked,  kindly. 

44  Don’t  laugh  at  me — please  don’t  laugh  at  me,”  he  im¬ 
plored;  then,  coming  meekly  a  step  nearer — 44  May  I  sit 
there?” — touching  a  stool  at  her  feet. 

44  Yes,  you  can  sit  there  if  you  like.  But  don’t  look  so 
miserable  about  a  joke  of  that  silly  Charlie’s,  or  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  laugh  again.” 

44  But  he  shouldn’t  say  things  like  that — lies — for  I  tell 
you  they  are  lies!” — passionately. 

44  Now,  Gussie,  you  must  not  be  so  petulant.  You  used 
to  bear  chaff  quite  well  at  Ambleside. ” 

44  Ah,  yes,  at  Ambleside!”  said  Gussie,  softening. 
44  Look  here — I  can  stand  chaff  now,  too,  when  it  is  only 
chaff.  But  this  about  the  Lawns  is  different.  I  tell  you  I 
have  been  in  love  only  with  one  woman  ever,  and — ” 

44  Gussie!”  interrupted  Doris,  in  a  voice  of  warning. 

44  It  is  all  right,”  he  protested,  nodding  his  head  in  a 


I 


r>OKiS*S  EOETUKE.  91 

quaint  reassurance.  “  Look — see  how  quiet  and  good  I 
am!  I’m  not  going  to  be  a  fool  again.  I  was  only  going 
to  tell  you  that  you  are  the  only — ” 

“  I  don’t  want  to  be  told  anything.  ” 

“  Well,  that  I  never,  since  that  evening  on  the  river  with 
you  — ” 

“  Please  leave  me  out  of  the  question.” 

'  “  But  I  can’t  explain  myself  without  bringing  you  in.” 

“  I  don’t  want  you  to  explain  yourself.” 

“  Don’t  be  so  unkind!” 

“  Don’t  be  so  babyish!  Really,  Gussie,  I  don’t  think  you 
will  ever  grow  up!” 

“  That’s  just  it,”  said  he,  seizing  the  opportunity.  “  I 
don’t  mean  ever  to  grow  up,  or  to  fall  in  love,  or  ever  to 
be  anything  but  a  boy.  I’ve  found,  you  see,  that  my  ideal 
of  womanhood  is  not  to  be  found,  except  just  one  specimen 
which  is  locked  up  in  a  glass  case  and  is  private  properly. 
So  I  don’t  want  to  grow  up  to  manhood,  you  see,  but  to 
remain  a  good  little  boy,  and  come  and  peep  at  the  glass 
case  sometimes,  and  rub  the  dust  off  the  glass  very  care¬ 
fully;  which  means  that  I’ll  come  and  cheer  you  up  as  I 
used  at  Ambleside — if  I  may.”  v 

A  most  discreetly  uttered  speech  for  Gussie,  without  any 
violence  or  undue  haste,  but  some  most  honest,  genuine 
feeling  in  his  voice,  as  he  tenderly  embraced  his  own  knees, 
after  a  favorite  ungainly  fashion  of  his,  and  glanced  up 
from  the  tire  to  her  face  with  looks  too  humble  to  be  affec¬ 
tionate. 

Doris  was  touched,  and  he  saw  that  she  was,  and  his 
heart  ached  for  her  in  the  loneliness  of  her  life;  for  both 
he  and  Charlie  saw  a  good  deal  more  than  Doris  did,  and 
Gussie,  who  worshiped  her  most  loyally  since  that  interview 
with  her  over  Mrs.  Bramwell’s  wall  had  revealed  to  him 
the  beautiful  purity  and  kindliness  of  her  nature,  could 
afford  a  very  magnanimous  pity  for  her  now  that  his  wild 
assertions  concerning  David’s  coldness  had  proved  to  be  too 
well  founded.  For  the  moment  Doris  found  it  difficult  to 
answer,  and  Gussie  hal  the  sense  not  to  disturb  her.  When 
she  spoke  her  voice  trembled  a  little. 

“  I ou  are  a  good  fellow,  Gussie;  and,  as  long  as  you 
don’t  talk  nonsense,  you  are  one  of  the  kindest  old  friends 
I  have.” 

He  thought  she  was  going  to  say  more;  but,  instead  of 


92 


DORIS'S  FORTUNE. 


that,  she  got  up  rather  abruptly,  and  walked  away  to  the 
piano.  GussiVs  heart  leaped  up,  and  he  felt  a  great  thrcb 
pass  through  him  impelling  him  to  rush  after  her  headlong. 
"But  he  got  the  better  of  himself  the  next  moment;  and 
clutched  his  knees  more  firmly  than  ever. 

“If  I  get  up,"  he  said  to  himself,  “  she’ll  think  I’m 
going  to  make  love  to  her  again,  and  then  it  will  be  all 
up." 

So  lie  remained  looking  at  the  fire  until  the  voices  of  the 
other  men  sounded  in  the  hall,  when  he  sprung  up  as  if 
shod  from  a  cannon,  and  rushed  across  the  room  to  Doris. 

He  gave  her  one  inquiring  look,  as  if  to  ask,  “  Have  I 
done  right?"  And  the  answering  glance  she  gave  him 
from  moist  shining  eyes  assured  him  that  he  had. 

“  Shall  I  find  some  music  for  you,  Doris?"  he  asked,  as 
the  others  entered  the  room. 

But  Charlie  hated  music.  It  took  a  girl's  attention 
away  from  himself.  The  only  occasion  on  which  he  ap¬ 
proved  of  it  was  when  he  was  between  two  girls,  a  plain 
one  and  a  pretty  one.  Then,  if  anybody  proposed  music, 
he  always  turned  to  the  plain  one  and  said,  “  Oh,  yes,  do 
let  us  have  some  music!  That  lovely  sonata  thing  I've 
heard  you  play,  with  the  little  runs  at  the  top  of  the  piano!" 
Now  he  would  not  hear  of  Doris's  playing;  and,  as  a  night¬ 
ly  performance  on  the  piano,  while  David  placidly  dozed, 
had  not  increased  her  fondness  for  the  practice,  it  was  not 
difficult  to  lead  her  away  to  the  fire  again  to  talk. 

“  Have  you  heard  how  disgustingly  Melton's  cousin  has 
been  behaving?"  asked  Charlie,  when  he  had  his  coffee. 

“No.  Tell  me." 

“  Well,  you  know  how  he  came  back  from  Australia, 
and,  when  everybody  thought  he  was  a  bachelor,  suddenly 
produced  a  portmanteau  containing  an  Antipodean  wife 
and  about  eighteen  Antipodean  children. " 

“  Eight,"  interrupted  Gussie,  in  a  voice  which  seemed  to 
imply  that  in  the  exact  number  lay  the  atrocity  of  the 
thing. 

“  Well,  now  he  has  fallen  ill,  and  a  week  ago  he  had  the 
audacity  to  send  for  his  innocent  victim — 1  mean  our  friend 
Gussie — just  to  see  if  he  would  make  a  proper  sort  of 
guardian  for  the  eight  young  bushrangers,  I  expect." 

“  No,  no;  very  likely  he  means  to  leave  him  a  handsome 


DORISES  FORTUNE.  93 

legacy.  That  would  be  only  fair,  since  he  is  so  rich,  and 
Gussie  was  the  heir  for  so  long.  ” 

Gussie  shook  his  head. 

“  No,  I  think  his  wife  would  prevent  that.  She  is  a 
hard,  coarse  woman,  and  she  seems  to  have  great  influence 
over  him.  He  wanted  to  speak  to  me  alone,  poor  fellow,  I 
believe — to  tell  me  he  was  sorry  for  my  disappointment. 
But  she  would  not  leave  us  for  a  single  moment,  and  she 
didn’t  seem  happy  until  I  was  at  the  door  to  go.  It  was  a 
very  unpleasant  visit  for  me;  and  I  was  glad  to  be  out  of 
the  house,  I  can  tell  you." 

“  Where  do  they  live?” 

“  At  Reigate.  ” 

“Shall  you  spend  Christmas  there,  Gussie?”  asked 
Doris. 

“  Oh,  no;  my  cousin  is  much  too  ill!  Besides,  I  don’t 
like  them.  ’  ’ 

“  Then  will  you  come  and  spend  it  with  us?  I  shall 
write  to  your  mother  to  ask  if  she  will  come,  too.  She  is 
in  town,  is  she  not?” 

“  Yes.  She  came  up  from  Torquay  yesterday.” 

“Aren’t  you  going  to  invite  me,  too,  Doris?”  asked 
Charlie,  meekly. 

“  If  you  are  good,  I  will.  Hilda  Warren  will  be  here, 
and  some  more  nice  people.” 

“‘Thank  you.  Lots  of  girls,  please!  Christmas  is  hor¬ 
rid  without  lots  of  girls.  1  say,  Doris,  are  you  going  to  do 
some  beautiful  Christmas  shopping  as  you  used  to  do  with 
Mrs.  Edgcombe?  Going  to  Covent  Garden  to  get  fruit, 
and  all  that?” 

“  Yes,  I  am  going  up  to  town  on  the  twenty -third.” 

“  The  twenty-third?  Don’t  say  the  twenty-third,  or  I 
sha’n’t  be  able  to  go  with  you,  as  I  wanted  to.” 

“  Then  let  me  go  with  you  instead  of  him.  I  have  noth¬ 
ing  to  do  on  that  day;  and  I’m  a  first-rate  judge  of 
plums,”  pleaded  Gussie. 

“The  only  thing  he  learned  at  school,”  explained 
Papillon. 

“  I  don’t  want  either  of  you.  Y"ou  forget  I  have  a  hus- 
band  to  escort  me  now.” 

Charlie  made  a  grimace,  and  David’s  sweet  voice  chimed 
in  upon  the  babble. 

“  [  am  afraid  I  shall  not  be  able  to  accompany  you  on 


94 


DORISES  FORTUKE. 

the  twenty-third,  Doris.  I  have  a  shareholders’  meeting 
on  that  day.  You  had  better  accept  Melton’s  offer.” 

Doris’s  first  impulse,  in  the  moment  of  chagrin,  was  to 
declare  she  would  go  alone  or  with  her  grandmother.  But 
a  resentful  thought,  the  first  she  had  ever  felt  toward  her 
husband,  suddenly  prompted  her  to  turn  to  Gussie  and 
make  the  appointment  with  him. 

“  And  we’ll  choose  Christmas  presents,”  said  Gussie, 
with  the  delight  of  a  boy. 

“  Hush!”  said  Charlie,  tragically.  “  The  tyrant  will 
o’erhear  you.” 

“  Oh,  the  tyrant  is  not  jealous!”  said  Doris,  with  less 
sweetness  than  usual. 

“  I  may  accept  a  Christmas  present,  may  I  not,  David?” 

“  Certainly,”  said  he  at  once. 

And  the  appointment  was  settled. 

Both  the  visitors  were  to  spend  the  night  at  Fairleigh,  so 
the  little  party  could  sit  and  chatter  until  what  time  they 
liked.  It  was  late  before  they  broke  up.  Just  as  they 
were  separating  for  the  night  a  most  unexpected  ring  at 
the  front-door  bell  arrested  them,  and  the  next  moment  a 
telegram  was  brought  in  for  Mr.  Melton.  A  message  had 
been  sent  from  Reigate  to  his  modest  lodging  in  town,  and 
telegraphed  on  to  Fairleigh.  It  was  from  his  cousin’s 
solicitor. 

“  Mr.  Roderick  Melton  is  worse.  Come  at  once.” 

The  last  thing  that  Gussie  said  to  his  hostess,  as  she  shook 
hands  with  him  at  the  door,  where  the  dog-cart  was  waiting 
to  drive  him  as  far  as  Croyden,  was — 

“  Don’t  forget,  Doris,  you  have  promised.  You  are  to 
be  at  Waterloo  Station  at  three  o’clock  on  the  twenty- 
third.” 

“  I  remember,  Gussie.  Good-bye!” 

And,  as  he  drove  away,  his  three  friends  conjectured 
among  themselves  whether  this  sudden  summons  portended 
a  change  in  his  prospects. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Not  one  word  in  satisfaction  of  their  curiosity  concerning 
Gussie  and  his  visit  to  his  sick  cousin  did  Charlie  or  Doris 
or  David  get  during  the  fortnight  which  elapsed  between 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


95 


his  abrupt  departure  from  Fairleigh  and  the  twenty-third 
of  December,  the  day  of  his  appointment  with  Doris  in 
town. 

Mrs.  Glyn  did  indeed  receive  at  breakfast  two  days  later 
what  she  thought  must  be  a  letter  from  him.  Bat,  on 
opening  the  envelope,  it  proved  to  be  only  a  card  with  these 
words— 

“  Dear  Doris, — You  won't  forget  the  twenty-third, 
will  you?  I  am  thinking  of  nothing  else. 

“  Yours  very  sincerely, 

46  Gussie." 

Her  husband  asked  to  see  it,  and  she  wondered  what 
effect  the  ardent  expectation  expressed  in  the  note  would 
have  upon  him.  It  had  none.  Ail  he  said  was — 

“  No  black  edge!  His  cousin  didn't  die  then;"  and  then 
he  took  up  the  city  column  of  the  “  Times  "  again. 

Doris  sent  no  answer  to  the  note;  but  on  the  twenty- 
third,  after  another  fortnight  of  uneasy  reserve  with  her 
husband,  which  she  had  not  the  courage  again  to  attempt 
to  break,  she  was  surprised  to  find  how  much  the  little  ex¬ 
citement  of  the  shopping  excursion  with  her  old  playfellow 
affected  her.  She  ran  upstairs  after  her  solitary  luncheon, 
rejected  one  bonnet  because  it  was  of  a  dull  green  color, 
which  Gussie  had  ignorantly  condemned  as  aesthetic,  passed 
her  mantles  in  review,  to  choose  the  most  becoming,  and 
was  unusually  particular  about  the  exact  shade  of  her 
gloves.  She  had  lost  heart  of  late  to  concern  herself  with 
these  little  coquetries,  not  being  frivolous  enough  by  nat¬ 
ure  to  take  pleasure  in  them  except  for  some  definite 
object;  and  to  please  David  was  no  longer  a  definite 
object,  since  he  always  gave  her  the  same  sweet,  but  not 
enthusiastic,  smile  of  satisfaction,  and  never  noticed  any 
change  in  her  dress. 

A  sense  of  this  came  suddenly  upon  her  as  she  was  trying 
to  make  up  her  mind  between  a  brown  veil  and  a  black 
one.  She  had  not  until  lately  been  used  to  analyzing  her 
own  feelings  and  motives;  but  the  disappointment  of  her 
vague,  young-girl  hopes  of  a  full  and  complete  happiness 
with  the  husband  of  her  choice  had  during  the  last  few 
weeks  made  her  moody  and  thoughtful;  and,  as  she  stood 
looking  at  her  own  handsome  face  in  the  glass  before  her. 


96 


DORIS'S  FORTUNE. 


not  with  vanity,  but  curiosity,  her  expression  changed  from 
the  light-hearted  expectation  of  a  girlish  pleasure  into  the 
sad  wondering  look  of  the  woman  who  knows  she  is 
neglected  and  can  find  no  reason  why. 

Perhaps  she  did  not  try  hard  enough  to  please  her  hus¬ 
band,  she  thought,  as  she  herself  noticed  how  the  mo¬ 
mentarily  animated  beauty  of  her  face  seemed  to  change 
into  still  marble  as  the  remembrance  of  David  came  into 
her  mind.  But  her  conscience  was  free  on  that  point;  if 
she  did  not  take  special  pains  with  her  person  for  David,  it 
was  because  he  saw  no  difference  between  a  careless  toilet 
and  a  careful  one — at  least  on  her.  This  little  pang  of 
vague  jealousy  pricked  her  at  the  memory  of  certain  not  in¬ 
judicious  criticisms  which  she  had  heard  him  pass  on  the 
dress  of  other  women. 

Perhaps  it  was  an  indispensable  condition  of  married  life 
that  at  the  end  of  a  couple  of  months  husband  and  wife 
should  become  wax-work  figures  each  as  far  as  the  other 
was  concerned,  and  remain  flesh  and  blood  to  all  the  world 
besides.  This  did  not  seem  right,  certainly;  but  what  had 
she  and  David  done  that  they  should  be  exceptions  to  the 
general  rule?  Why  did  he  look  at  her,  speak  to  her,  as  if 
she  were  a  picture  on  the  wall,  instead  of  a  living,  breath¬ 
ing  woman  at  his  side? 

And  feelings,  tumultuous,  rebellious,  such  as  her  calm 
life  had  never  before  known,  rushed  up  from  the  very 
depths  of  her  heart,  astonishing  her  by  their  impetuosity, 
frightening  her,  seeming  to  raise  the  very  anchors  of  her 
untutored  simple  faith  in  all  that  was  right  and  good.  She 
had  done  no  wrong;  she  had  tried  hard,  very  hard,  to  do 
right;  she  lived  a  blameless  life;  she  bore  neglect  and  the 
hardest  of  all  solitude,  the  solitude  with  a  living  compan¬ 
ion,  bravely,  silently,  and  she  was  suffering  as  if  she  had 
done  some  great  wrong.  It  was  the  first  time  that  she  had 
admitted — the  first  time  indeed  that  she  was  fully  conscious 
— that  it  was  suffering,  this  numb  pain  which  had  suddenly, 
without  any  warning,  burst  out  into  acute  misery.  For  a 
few  minutes  she  gave  way;  and,  throwing  off  her  pretty  lit¬ 
tle  bonnet,  fii  lging  down  the  seal-skin  mantle  that  had  been 
her  last  choice,  she  knelt  down  on  the  floor  with  her  head 
against  the  bed  and  sobbed  bitterly. 

Then  the  soft  tap  of  her  maid,  whom  she  had  sent  to  get 
her  a  camellia  from  the  conservatory,  made  her  start  up 


1 


DORISES  FORTUHE. 


9? 


&nd  rush  to  wash  her  face  with  an  impetuosity  very  unlike 
the  usual  dignity  of  her  movements.  When  she  put  on  the 
little  bonnet  again,  it  surmounted  a  tear-stained  and 
swollen  face  to  which  the  aesthetic  green  or  any  other  head- 
gear  would  have  been  equally  unbecoming.  The  choice  be¬ 
tween  the  veils  now  fell  at  once  on  the  brown,  as  the  thick¬ 
est;  and  Lufton.  followed  her  mistress  in  the  deepest  depths 
of  amazement  as  to  what  had  “  come  over  her.” 

All  Doris’s  girlish  pleasure  in  her  expedition  had  faded 
away.  She  sat  looking  out  of  the  window  of  the  railway 
carriage  at  the  cold  flat  country,  and  then  at  the  uninterest¬ 
ing  backs  of  rows  of  suburban  houses,  considering  the  slow 
but  sure  growth  of  the  blight  upon  her  life  which  marriage 
had  brought  to  her,  and  wondering  whether  the  effect  was 
the  same  upon  David.  She  would  speak  to  him  that  very 
night — open  her  heart  to  him,  if  he  would  let  her!  That 
was  the  point.  At  any  sign  of  a  wish  on  her  part  to  carry 
the  conversation  beyond  the  chitchat  of  details  concerning 
their  every-day  life  to  the  more  intimate  discussion  of 
moods  and  feelings,  David  had  a  manner  of  growing  utterly 
blank  and  absent  which  suddenly  raised  a  six-feet-high  bar¬ 
rier  between  them  and  effectually  protected  him  from  en¬ 
croachments  upon  his  own  reserve.  However,  she  would 
try;  she  would  resolutely  speak  through  the  barrier,  break 
it  down  if  possible  by  the  force  of  her  own  feelings.  Since 
the  outburst  in  her  own  room  of  an  hour  before,  Doris  still 
felt  sensitive,  excited,  not  only  unwilling,  but  unable  to  go 
on  quietly  with  her  still,  cold,  every-day  life  without  some 
relief  to  the  pent-up  emotions  which  the  merest  accident 
had  quickened  within  her. 

She  was  impatient  for  the  day  to  be  over  that  she  might 
put  her  new  resolve  into  effect  before  reflection  and  the 
force  of  daily  habit  had  had  time  to  make  it  grow  cool.  In 
order  that  she  might  take  what  time  she  liked  over  her 
purchases  in  town,  David  had  himself  suggested  that  she 
should  dine  at  her  grandmother’s;  as  for  him,  he  would 
either  take  Papillon  to  a  restaurant  or  perhaps  go  down  (o 
the  Lawns;  she  need  not  trouble  herself  about  h’m.  She 
was  glal  therefore  that  she  bad  some  occupation  to  pre¬ 
vent  her  timi  iity  from  getting  the  better  of  her  courage 
during  the  hours  before  she  could  meet  him;  but  she  Had 
absolutely  no  other  feeling  left  about  her  expedition  with 
Gussie. 


4 


98 


DORISES  BOBTUNJE. 


It  came  with  a  little  shock  upon  her  therefore  that  at 
Waterloo  Station,  where  he  was  waiting  on  the  platform, 
he  sprung  upon  the  carriage-step  as  nimbly  as  any  guard, 
and,  panting  out,  almost  inarticulate  with  excitement, 
“  Train  was  late — thought  you  weren't  coming!"  took  her 
hand  with  a  frantic  tremor  in  his  which  showed  plainly  to 
what  a  pitch  of  eagerness  for  the  meeting  he  had  worked 
himself. 

He  helped  her  out  on  to  the  platform,  with  just  one  look 
up  at  her  face,  a  look  so  strangely  intense  that  Doris  asked 
wonderingly — 

“  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Gussie?  Hare  you  been 
ill?" 


“  No,  no,  no!"  said  he  impatiently.  “  I  am  quite  well. 
There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me.  Now  you  can  send 
your  maid  back.  I’m  to  take  care  of  you  now." 

She  looked  at  him  again  when  she  had  dismissed  Lufton, 
and  said  abruptly,  as  it'  relieved — 

“  I  see  what  it  is.  You  are  in  mourning.  I  knew  there 
was  some  change  in  you;  but  I  could  not  quite  make  out 
what  it  was." 

4 4  Yes,"  he  answered,  in  a  rather  constrained  voice; 
“  my  cousin  died  on  the  eleventh." 

“  Oh,  that  was  the  day  you  wrote  to  me!  Why  did  you 
say  nothing  about  it?" 

“  He  did  not  die  until  the  evening." 

“  You  were  there?" 

“  Yes,  of  course.  You  have  seen  all  the  Christmas  num¬ 
bers?" — they  are  passing  the  book-stall. 

“  David  brought  them  aovvn — all  those  I  wanted  to  see." 

The  subject  of  his  cousin's  death  was  distasteful  evi¬ 
dently.  It  could  not  be  from  his  excessive  grief;  Gussie 
had  never  been  more  to  the  elder  Mr.  Melton  than  “  next 
of  kin.  ”  He  must  have  been  disappointed  in  his  natural 
hope  of  a  legacy. 

But  waiting  at  the  side  of  the  platform  was  a  very  neat 
brougham,  drawn  by  a  chestnut  horse,  at  which  Doris 
glanced  admiringly  as  the  footman  opened  the  door.  She 
raised  her  eyebrows  with  a  smile  as  Gussie  stepped  in  after 
her. 


“  A  present,  an  extravagance,  or  what?"  she  asked  good- 
humoredly. 

4  4  Neither.  A  loan,"  he  answered  quickly. 


BORISES  FORTUNE. 


99 


u  What  a  lovely  rug,  Gussie!”  she  exclaimed,  as  he 
wrapped  a  soft,  handsome  bear-skin  carefully  round  her. 

“  Yes;  I  like  dark  furs.  ” 

66  But  it  makes  my  sealskin  look  shabby.” 

“  No,  it  doesn’t.  It  shows  off  your  face;  it  makes  you 
look  like  the  lovely  queen  you  are!”  he  burst  out  in  his  ex¬ 
travagant  Ambleside  fashion. 

“  Gussie,  if  you  begin  to  talk  like  a  baby,  I  shall  stop 
the  carriage  and  go  back.” 

“  No,  you  won’t.  Both  the  men  are  under  spells;  they 
have  been  hired  for  the  occasion  out  of  the  6  Arabian 
Nights/  and,  without  the  utterance  of  the  proper  words, 
which  you  don’t  know,  they  would  drive  round  and  round 
the  West-end  forever.” 

Doris  laughed.  He  was  so  exuberantly  happy,  so  en¬ 
tirely  like  the  old  playfellow  of  whom  she  still  had  an  affec¬ 
tionate  recollection,  that  she  could  not  help  being  cheered 
by  his  high  spirits,  now  doubly  exhilarating  since  the  dull 
depression  in  which  she  had  lately  lived.  As  they  went 
from  shop  to  shop,  choosing  Christmas-cards  and  Christ¬ 
mas  presents,  through  the  bright  alley  of  Co  vent  Garden, 
buying  fruit  and  flowers,  Gussie  grew  more  and  more  buoy¬ 
antly  happy,  and  Doris  caught  the  infection.  He  lagged 
behind  her  as  she  went  through  the  stalls  outside  the  cov¬ 
ered  market  toward  the  brougham,  and  she  had  to  wait  for 
him;  when  he  came  up  with  her,  she  was  so  struck  with 
consternation  to  see  that  his  arms  were  piled  high  with  flow¬ 
ers,  the  loveliest  she  had  admired  as  they  walked  through 
together. 

“  Gussie!”  she  exclaimed,  not  knowing  what  to  think. 

“  It's  all  right;  it’s  a  commission!”  he  explained  hastily, 
as  if  to  clear  himself  of  an  implied  charge  of  theft.  “  Now 
you’ll  come  and  see  my  mother,  won’t  you?”  said  he,  in  a 
tone  of  strong  but  suppressed  excitement  which  puzzled 
her.  4  ‘  She  wants  you  to  come.  She  told  me  to  beg  you 
to  come.  You  will  come,  won’t  your” 

“  Certainly,”  said  Doris  readily,  a  little  surprised  by  his 
vehemence.  Mrs.  Melton  was  a  dry  and  melancholy  lady, 
much  cast  down  by  the  rude  force  of  adverse  circumstances, 
and  very  tiresome  by  the  persistency  with  which  she  im¬ 
pressed  upon  her  acquaintances  that  circumstances  had  been 
adverse.  What  she  would  be  like  since  this  recent  blow  of 
the  late  Mr.  Gresham’s  marriage  and  her  own  son’s  conse- 


100 


DORIS’S  FORTUXE. 


quent  disappointment  Doris  dared  not  imagine.  “  Where 
is  Mrs.  Melton  staying  now?”  she  asked  presently. 

“  You’ll  see,”  answered  Gussie  enigmatically. 

When  Doris  did  66  see,”  she  w7as  overwhelmed  with  as¬ 
tonishment. 

For,  on  the  brougham's  stopping  at  a  big  new  hotel  near 
the  Strand,  Gussie  impetuously  dragged  her  out,  seized  her 
arm  firmly,  and  rushed  upstairs  with  her  as  far  as  the  first 
floor,  where  a  man-servant  threw  open  the  door  of  an  osten¬ 
tatiously  new  and  magnificent  room,  in  which  Mrs.  Melton, 
in  mourning  deep  enough  to  be  dignified  and  not  too  deep 
to  be  handsome,  rose,  rustling  with  black  silk  and  tinkling 
with  jet,  from  a  sofa  to  meet  her. 

“  Mamma,  go  and  see  if  the  things  I  have  ordered  have 
come  yet!”  said  Gussie  impetuously.  “  You  can  talk  to 
Doris  afterward.  ” 

And  “  mamma,”  trying  hard  to  maintain  an  expression 
befitting  her  mourning  dress,  while  there  shone  in  her  eyes 
keen  satisfaction  at  meeting  on  equal  terms,  as  far  as  rai¬ 
ment  was  concerned,  a  woman  before  whose  furs  and  laces 
her  own  alpacas  and  cottons  had  aforetime  figuratively 
quailed,  obediently  gave  Doris  a  less  lugubrious  kiss  than 
usual,  and  sailed  with  chastened  step  out  of  the  room. 

Some  idea  of  the  truth  was  beginning  to  dawn  on  Doris’s 
mind.  She  turned  suddenly  from  watching  Mrs.  Melton’s 
exit  to  face  the  young  man  who  had  so  naively  secured  a 
tete-a-tete  with  her. 

“  Gussie,  you  have  been  playing  me  a  trick,”  she  said, 
bewildered. 

“  And  what  if  I  have?  I  had*  a  right  to  tell  you  my 
news  in  my  own  way.  Sit  down — sit  down  here,  and  I’ll 
tell  you  everything.  I  am  mad  to  tell  you.” 

He  was  indeed  so  much  excited  that,  to  calm  him,  she 
obeyed  at  once,  and  sat  down  in  the  low  chair  he  had 
brought  to  the  hearth-rug  for  her,  ready  to  hear  the  news 
she  had  already  partly  guessed.  He  flung  himself  down  on 
the  floor  in  front  of  her,  and,  putting  his  hands  up  to  her 
throat  very  gently  before  she  could  prevent  him,  unfastened 
her  cloak  and  threw  it  open. 

“  You  will  catch  cold  if  you  sit  in  that,”  he  said,  with 
his  flushed  face  close  to  hers,  and  his  eyes  drinking  in  the 
fairness  of  her  face. 

She  drew  back  a  little,  and  pushed  his  hands  away  coldly. 


Doris’s  fortune. 


%c  No,  no,  you  must  not  be  unkind;  you  must  listen  to 
me  kindly.  You  will  see  now  you  were  wrong  to  think  I 
wanted  your  fortune  when  I  worshiped  you  so  at  Ambleside; 
I  believed  myself  to  be  then  what  I  am  really  now,  the  heir 
to  my  cousin’s  property,  in  need  of  no  woman’s  money. 
Doris,  Doris,  it  is  true.  My  cousin  was  not  married  at  all 
— the  woman  was  not  his  wife.  Everything  is  mine,  mine! 
Oh,  Doris,  Doris,  if  it  had  only  come  a  year  ago!” 

He  was  kneeling  at  her  feet,  rubbing  his  head  in  his 
hands,  in  utter  abandonment  to  an  excitement  which  in¬ 
fected  Doris. 

She  tried  to  calm  him  with  cold  and  severe  words,  ut¬ 
tered  in  a  trembling  voice  which  took  away  their  sting. 
She  wanted  to  rise;  but  he  would  not  let  her  go. 

“  No,  no!”  he  cried  passionately.  “  You  must  say 
something  kind  to  me  first;  you  must  tell  me  you  are  sorry 
you  ever  thought  me  interested--” 

“  I  am  sorry,  Gussie — I  am  sorry.  I  have  believed  in 
you,  you  know.  I  am  very,  very  glad  you  are  well  off;  I 
feel  certain  you  will  make  a  good  and  noble  use  of  your 
money,  better  than  I  have  a  chance  of  making  of  mine,” 
she  added  sadly.  “  Now  you  must  let  me  go;  1  am  late 
already.” 

“Wait,  wait;  you  haven’t  had  my  Christmas  present. 
David  said  I  might  give  you  a  Christmas  present,  didn’t 


he; 


“  Well,  bring  it  down  writh  you  to  Fairleigh,  Gussie, 
where  we  can  all  see  it  together,  and  you  can  make  me  a 
beautiful  speech  about  it,”  said  she  nervously. 

But  he  stamped  with  childish  impatience  at  the  idea  of 
deferring  his  own  promised  pleasure,  sprung  to  the  chair 
where  he  had  thrown  his  overcoat,  and  dragged  out  of  one 
of  the  pockets  a  large  flat  morocco  case.  Doris  gave  a  lit¬ 
tle  cry  of  fear.  He  pulled  it  open  and  placed  it  in  her 
lap.  It  was  a  set  of  diamonds  and  sapphires,  the  stones  of 
large  size,  the  setting  perfect,  the  value  obviously  alarming. 

She  made  a  movement  to  thrust  it  aside. 

“  No,  Doris!”  he  said  imperiously,  seizing  her  hands 
and  looking  up  with  flashing  eyes  into  her  face.  “  I  ac¬ 
cepted  from  your  hands  help  in  money,  a  pretty  good  proof 
that  you  know  me  well  enough  to  take  a  present  from  me. 
You  have  no  jewels  worthy  of  your  position — I  have  heard 
Mrs.  Edgcombe  say  so.  Since  jewels  are  of  so  little  value 


102 


doris’s  fortune. 


in  jour  eyes,  they  are  just  as  worthless  in  mine.  You 
must  keep  these — you  shall!  Let  me  put  them  round  your 
neck,  just  as  I  would  put  flowers  on  the  altar  of  a  goddess,  ” 

But  Doris  repulsed  him  quickly,  rising  as  she  did  so. 
She  spoke  in  a  low  tremulous  voice. 

“  I  will  keep  them,  Gussie,  on  condition  that  you  let  me 
leave  at  once.” 

He  stepped  back,  doubtful,  hesitating.  With  one  glance 
at  his  excited  face,  she  left  the  room,  with  the  jewels 
against  her  breast. 


CHAPTER  XIY. 

Doris  left  the  hotel  hurriedly,  got  into  a  cab,  and  drove 
to  Waterloo  Station.  As  she  drove  off,  she  saw  Gussie 
Melton  rush  out  of  the  door-way  on  to  the  pavement;  but 
she  drew  back  and  would  not  let  him  see  her.  She  was  so 
much  agitated  by  the  emotions  which  the  young  man’s  im¬ 
petuous  outburst  of  gratitude  and  affection  had  awakened 
in  her  that  she  felt  she  could  not  now  expose  herself  to  the 
keen  scrutiny  of  her  grandmother’s  eyes.  She  must  get 
back  to  Eairleigh,  where  she  would  still  have  two  or  three 
hours  alone  to  compose  herself  before  her  husband’s  return. 

She  wished  with  all  her  heart  that  she  had  not  gone  up 
to  town.  Gussie’s  boyish  devotion,  coming  so  quickly  after 
her  outburst  of  misery  at  her  husband’s  neglect,  had  ex¬ 
cited  her  so  strangely  that  she  had  scarcely  been  able  to 
control  herself  while  listening  to  him — had  been  on  the 
point,  innocent  as  she  was,  of  breaking  into  tears  at  the 
dangerous  touch  of  sympathy.  Until  those  last  few  mo¬ 
ments  at  the  hotel,  when  his  impetuosity  had  suddenly 
frightened  her,  she  had  certainly  been  happier  with  Gussie 
than  she  had  been  for  weeks;  for  the  pleasure  she  had  en 
joyed  in  her  husband’s  society  on  that  one  evening  when  hw 
had  devoted  himself  to  trying  to  please  her  had  been  fever¬ 
ish,  uneasy,  fraught  with  fear  lest  he  should  not  find  her 
so  fascinating  as  she  found  him.  All  the  time-honored 
jests  and  gibes  at  the  infelicity  of  the  married  state,  which 
she  had  formerly  thought  so  coarse,  had  then  a  terrible 
foundation  of  truth!  Doris  rebelled  against  this  conclu¬ 
sion.  A  means  of  testing  David’s  feeling  for  her  came  into 
her  mind  through  the  jewels  she  carried  imher  hand,  If 
he  could  submit  coolly  to  his  wife’s  receiving  such  a  presen‘6 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


103 


from  another  man,  then  indeed  she  felt  that  husbands  must 
be  made  of  different  clay  from  other  men.  Whether  this 
action  would  be  quite  fair  to  Gussie  she  was  too  typical  a 
woman  to  consider.  It  is  a  very  exceptional  woman  who 
has  room  in  her  head  or  heart  for  more  than  one  man  at  a 
time;  the  feelings,  interests,  of  the  outsiders  count  for 
nothing. 

That  her  conscience  might  be  free  from  the  reproach  of 
taking  more  pains  for  another  man  than  for  her  husband, 
rather  than  with  any  thought  that  these  pains  would  have 
much  effect  upon  David,  Doris  put  on  that  evening 
a  new  tea-gown  of  coral-colored  liberty  silk  trimmed  with 
coffee-tinted  net  embroidered  with  gold.  No  reigning 
beauty  ever  looked  lovelier  than  she,  as,  with  an  unusual 
flush  in  her  cheeks  and  light  in  her  eyes  giving  luster  to 
her  dark  beauty,  she  sat  in  the  drawing-room,  in  the  sub¬ 
dued  varying  light  of  fire  and  lamp  and  shaded  candles, 
playing  with  the  sparkling  stones  whose  only  value  in  her 
eyes  lay  in  the  use  to  which  she  was  going  to  put  them. 

Eleven  o'clock,  half  past  eleven,  twelve  struck  before  the 
bell  rang  and  she  heard  the  faint  sound  of  a  door  shutting 
as  a  servant  went  to  let  the  master  in.  Doris  had  left  her 
seat  by  the  fire  twenty  times  to  walk  across  the  room,  un¬ 
fasten  the  shutters,  open  the  window,  and  listen  in  the  still¬ 
ness.  Now,  with  the  longed-for  moment  so  near,  she  sat 
quite  still,  feeling  the  loud  quick  beating  of  her  heart  and 
a  heavy  weight  at  her  temples.  She  no  longer  felt  the  case 
in  her  hands;  it  fell  to  the  ground  as  she  rose,  trembling, 
on  hearing  her  husband's  step  outside  the  door.  The  slight 
noise  it  made  in  falling  frightened  her;  but  she  did  not 
stoop  to  pick  it  up.  The  door  opened,  and  David  came 
in.  He  started  at  sight  of  her,  and,  as  he  did  so,  she  no¬ 
ticed  that  he  wore  the  usual  abstracted  weary  look  after  a 
long  day  devoted  to  “  business”* — it  even  seemed  to  her 
that  he  was  more  absorbed,  more  absent  than  usual. 

“  You  up  still,  Doris?  I  thought  you  would  have  been 
in  bed  hours  ago!” 

“  I  waited  to  see  you,  to  speak  to  you,”  she  answered, 
in  a  very  low  and  subdued  voice. 

4 4  To  speak  to  me!  Anything  wrong  then?” 

A  quick  glance  at  her — not  the  glance  of  loving  interest, 
6ut  of  suspicious  curiosity — apparently  satisfied  him  that  it 
was  nothing  serious — to  him. 


104 


DORIS’S  FORTUKE. 


“  No,  David,  nothing  is  wrong — at  least,  you  will  think 
not.  ” 

44  Won’t  it  keep  till  the  morning?  I  am  very  tired. 

He  looked  very  white  and  weary,  and  Doris  twisted  an 
arm-chair  round  to  the  fire,  and  with  very  tender  hands, 
led  him  to  it  and  coaxed  him  to  sit  down. 

46 1  would  rather  speak  to  you  now,  if  I  may.  I  have 
been  waiting  three  hours  to  see  you,  and  I — I  can  speak 
better  now  than  in  the  morning. 99 

She  felt  that  this  terrible  strain  of  excitement  which  she 
had  been  suffering  all  the  evening  would  leave  her  utterly 
incapable  of  producing  any  effect  by  her  eloquence  in  the 
cold  hours  of  the  morning. 

“  I  will  be  very  quiet,  and  I  will  not  keep  you  long,” 
she  continued,  in  a  low  measured  voice,  in  which  she  care¬ 
fully  suppressed  every  sign  of  excitement  except  a  slight 
tremor;  and  she  dropped  gently  on  to  her  knees  beside  him, 
put  one  hand  on  his,  and  looked  steadily  at  the  fire,  so  that 
she  might  not  see  the  cold  film  rise  in  his  eyes  and  shut  her 
out  from  him  as  she  spoke.  “We  have  been  married  six 
months  now,  David,  haven’t  we?  And  all  that  time  we 
have  never  had  one  quarrel,  one  disagreement  even.  You 
have  always  been  kind  and  indulgent  to  me,  and  I  have  al¬ 
ways  done  what  you  told  me  to.  And  indeed  I  love  and 
honor  you  as  I  ought  to  do,  and  would  do  anything  to 
please  you  and  make  you  happy.  And  yet  I  am  afraid — 
sometimes  I  think — that  I  don’t  try  quite  in  the  right  way, 
that  there  is  something  I  fail  in,  something  that  would  be 
quite  right  if  I  were  a  little  wiser,  if  I  knew  a  little  more. 
And  1  want  you,  if  you  can — you,  who  are  so  good  and  so 
indulgent  with  me  even  as  I  am — to  help  me  to  find  out 
what  it  is  that  I  miss.  You  will  say  that  you  are  satisfied 
with  me  as  I  am — I^know  that.  But  I  want  you  to  be 
more  than  satisfied;  I  want  you  to — to  make  me  more  to 
you,  if  you  only  can;  to  confide  in  me,  and  see  if  I  don’t 
deserve  it — not  for  your  sake — you  are  a  man,  and  can  be 
sufficient  to  yourself;  but  I  am  a  woman,  and  I  can’t. 
David,  please  forgive  me  for  saying  this;  but  to  see  you  so 
distant,  so  shut  up  from  me,  is  terrible;  I  can  not  bear  it!” 

She  paused  a  moment,  not  yet  daring  to  look  up,  hoping 
for  some  word  of  tenderness,  of  kindness.  She  had  kept 
her  voice  so  low,  so  gentle;  the  thrill  of  heartfelt  earnest¬ 
ness  that  rang  in  her  words  only  made  them  softer, 


-  . .  ..  -  '  •  .  .a.*-  .  v: 


DORISES  FORTUHE. 


105 


sweeter.  Now,  as  she  waited,  she  felt  his  left  hand,  on 
which  her  fingers  were  resting,  slip  gradually  from  under 
hers  down  on  to  his  knee.  She  felt  a  chill  of  great  fear. 
He  had  been  cold,  passive,  under  her  timid  caresses  before; 
hut  never  before  had  he  absolutely  repulsed  her.  She  raised 
her  eyes  to  his  face  with  the  dumb  agony  of  a  mortally 
wounded  animal. 

David  was  asleep. 

Her  soft  voice  had  acted  as  a  lullaby  to  the  tired  man, 
whose  faculties  had  at  once  relaxed  on  finding  that  her 
serious  conversation  did  not  concern  the  subjects  just  then 
of  most  vital  interest  to  him. 

As  cold  and  statuesque  as  David  in  his  most  reserved 
moods,  Doris  quietly  rose,  picked  up  the  despised  case  of 
jewels  to  which  her  attention  had  been  called  by  her  acci¬ 
dentally  treading  upon  them,  and,  without  another  look  at 
her  slumbering  lord,  swept  from  the  room  like  another 
Vashti. 

The  next  morning  she  returned  the  jewels  to  Gussie, 
sending  them  by  the  groom,  with  a  rather  formal  note,  say¬ 
ing  that  she  hoped  he  would  not  think  her  unkind,  but  that 
she  could  not  accept  a  present  of  so  much  value;  if  she 
were  to  keep  them,  it  would  be  ungracious  not  to  wear 
them;  and,  if  she  wore  them,  they  would  excite  remark. 

To  her  husband  that  morning  she  was  very  cold;  but  the 
change  in  her  escaped  his  attention.  She  told  him  of  Gus¬ 
sie' s  accession  to  fortune,  and  that  he,  in  a  frantically 
generous  mood,  had  offered  her  a  Christmas  present  so 
handsome  that  she  was  obliged  to  return  it.  At  this  Da¬ 
vid's  face  clouded,  and  his  wife  watched  the  uneasy  look  in 
his  eyes  with  some  hope  that  she  had  awakened  by  accident 
the  faint  jealousy  which  she  had  given  up  the  thought  of 
exciting  by  design. 

“  You  refused  it!"  he  began,  without  looking  at  her; 
then,  after  a  moment's  pause — ■“  I  think  you  are  too  par¬ 
ticular,  Doris;  it  was  scarcely  kind  to  snub  poor  Gussie  for 
such  a  very  natural  impulse  toward  a  lady  who  had  been 
kind  to  him.  When  a  man,  an  old  friend  too,  has  been 
hospitably  entertained  a  great  many  times  at  the  same 
house,  he  welcomes  Christmas  as  an  opportunity  of  reliev¬ 
ing  himself  gracefully  from  an  obligation." 

Doris  said  nothing.  For  the  moment  she  felt  again  the 
some  sharp  sting  of  disgust  and  rebellion  against  this  un- 


106 


Boris's  fortuke. 


impressionable  King  Log  which  she  had  felt  the  night  be¬ 
fore.  She  could  not  know  that,  their  thoughts  running  as 
usual  in  separate  grooves,  her  husband's  words  were  merely 
an  apology  to  himself  for  his  action  of  the  day  before  in 
taking  down  to  the  Lawns  a  pair  of  diamond  solitaire  ear¬ 
rings  as  a  peace-offering  to  Mrs.  Hodson,  who  was  offended 
by  a  conscience-stricken  excuse  he  had  made  when  she  re¬ 
quired  his  attendance  on  two  consecutive  evenings. 

So  both  Doris  and  her  husband  remained  mute  and  un¬ 
easy  after  this  marital  snub;  and,  as  Christmas-eve  was  a 
holiday  at  his  office  in  Somerset  House,  David  loafed  about 
the  house  by  himself  for  a  little  while  after  breakfast,  and 
then  sneaked  off  to  the  Lawns,  trusting  to  luck  and  his 
wife's  overrated  indifference  for  her  to  believe  that  he  was 
spending  the  day  as  usual  in  town.  Mrs.  Hodson' s  society 
had  become  a  necessity  to  him  now.  The  settling  influence 
of  marriage  had  in  his  case  resulted  in  confirming  him  in 
domesticity  indeed,  but  by  the  wrong  fireside.  Where  he 
had  been  tolerated  before  he  was  now  welcomed;  and  Da¬ 
vid,  though  he  was  beginning  to  feel  very  acute  tortures  of 
remorse  now  that  the  tide  of  speculation  seemed  to  have 
set  in  unfortunately  for  him,  found  that  the  feeble  efforts 
he  made  to  escape  were  quite  insufficient  to  break  the  chains 
which  the  stock-broker's  ingenuity  and  his  wife's  matronly 
fascinations  had  bound  securely  round  him. 

By  the  last  post  that  night  Doris  received  a  stiff  note 
from  Mrs.  Melton,  evidently  inspired  if  not  dictated  by 
Gussie,  regretting  that  their  recent  bereavement  rendered 
it  impossible  for  them  to  pass  Christmas  at  Fairleigh,  as 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Glyn  had  so  kindly  invited  them  to  do.  So 
the  party  was  incomplete,  and  the  festivities  were  damped, 
and  the  only  people  who  enjoyed  themselves  with  an  un¬ 
alloyed  joy  were  Charlie  Papillon  and  Hilda  Warren,  who 
gave  some  of  their  time  to  a  very  serious  discussion  of  the 
“  something  wrong  "  in  the  young  household,  and  of  course 
disagreed  violently  as  to  the  cause  of  it. 

“  He  neglects  her,  I  am  afraid,"  sighed  Hilda  sorrow¬ 
fully. 

“  She  bores  him,  J  am  sure,"  said  Charlie  promptly. 

“  He  shouldn't  have  married  her,  if  he  was  the  cort  of 
man  to  be  bored  by  a  good  woman." 

“  Seven  thousand  a  year  blinds  one  to  mere  possibilities 
Don't  you  think  it  would  blind  you?" 


'  '  -***'  . Hu.'  i  6-.  i  V..  Ml  j.  ...  .  .  h*  *  .. 


BORINS  BQRlOTEo 


10? 


8S  Yes,5 ?  answered  Hilda  frankly,  “  I  suppose  it  would.  ” 

“  Now,  if  I  had  seven  thousand  a  year,  you  would  over¬ 
look  my  faults.  99 

Poor  Hilda!  She  was  only  too  ready  to  overlook  them 
now.  But  Charlie,  with  that  discretion  which  was  not  only 
an  empty  boast,  had  sought  her  society  less  of  late,  having 
no  intention  of  burdening  his  easy  life  by  the  care  of 
a  wife.  If  he  were  in  Gussie’s  place,  it  would  be  different; 
and  Charlie  felt  it  very  hard  that  he,  of  the  three  once-im- 
pecunious  friends,  should  be  the  only  one  left  in  poverty. 
He  now  checked  the  passionate  outburst  which  was  in  Hil¬ 
da’s  heart  and  on  her  lips  by  reminding  her  that  they 
must  both  “  marry  money;”  and  the  girl,  with  a  pang  of 
jealousy,  wondered  whether  the  money  were  already  daz¬ 
zling  his  fickle  and  somewhat  mercenary  eyes. 

Christmas  was  passed  very  quietly,  and  soon  afterward 
Doris,  finding  the  loneliness  of  her  life  in  the  large  house 
by  the  river  quie  insupportable,  expressed  a  wish  to  live  in 
town,  to  be  near  her  grandmother.  David,  who  was  now, 
under  the  pressure  of  business  excitement,  losing  his  usual 
calmness  and  growing  irritable  and  almost  morose,  agreed 
at  once;  and  they  took  a  small  furnished  house  near  Glouces¬ 
ter  Eoad  Station,  a  situation  which  David  found  very 
convenient  for  Kichmond,  and  Doris  pleasantly  near  to  old 
Mrs.  Edgcombe’s  home. 

The  old  lady  was  always  well  informed  concerning  the 
movements  of  the  society  around  her,  and  it  was  she  who 
put  Doris  in  possession  of  a  piece  of  information  concern¬ 
ing  the  household  at  the  Lawns  which  the  latter  imparted 
to  her  husband  in  ihe  evening,  with  startling  effect. 

“Do  you  know,  David,”  she  said  solemnly  at  dinner¬ 
time,  “  I  have  heard  such  a  strange  thing  about  Mrs.  Hod- 
son!  I  should  scarcely  like  to  repeat  it,  except  that  grand¬ 
mamma  told  it  me  as  a  fact — and  you  know  how  particular 
she  is  about  scandal.  9 9 

“What  is  it?”  asked  David,  with  cold  blue  eyes  that 
might  have  been  of  glass. 

Why,  it  seems  that,  although  her  husband  is  known  to 
be  in  difficulties,  Mrs.  Hcdson  dresses  better  than  ever, 
wears  more  jewelry,  and  has  just  ordered  a  new  carriage! 
It  appears  that  Mrs.  Bramwoll,  who  told  grandmamma 
this,  and  who  is  very  vulgarljr  inquisitive,  as  you  know,  was 
having  her  brougham  repaired  at  the  same  coach-builder's; 


108 


doris's  fortune. 


and,  hearing  this  pretty  new  victoria  was  for  Mrs.  Hodson, 
she  said  she  wondered  he  was  not  afraid  of  supplying  goods 
to  such  an  extravagant  household.  And  the  coach-builder 
said  Mr.  Hod  son  was  not  the  gentleman  to  whom  the  bill 
was  sent  in.  " 

Some  strange  change,  showing  interest,  if  not  curiosity, 
which  came  over  David's  face  at  her  first  mention  of  this 
gossip  caused  her.  to  repeat  it  much  more  at  length  than 
she  had  intended  to  do.  When  she  finished,  he  asked 
dryly : 

“  And  who  is  the  gentleman?" 

‘ £  I  am  afraid  to  think. 9  9 

There  was  a  pause  before  he  said,  in  a  voice  which  would 
have  sounded  uninterested  and  stony  if  he  had  ever  shown 
vivid  interest  in  his  talks  with  his  wife — 

“  Well,  you  have  made  some  guess,  of  course?" 

“  I  am  afraid  it  must  be  Gussie. 99 

She  was  watching  Mm,  fearful  lest  he  should  think  her 
unduly  censorious.  At  this,  her  answer,  he  made  a  move¬ 
ment  with  his  right  elbow,  so  slight,  so  very  slight  that,  as 
he  was  turning  away  from  her  to  feed  the  dog,  she  might 
almost  have  thought  it  insignficant.  But,  f or  some  reason 
or  other,  that  scarcely  perceptible  motion  woke  in  the 
young  wife's  mind  the  first  faint  breath  of  vague  impalpa¬ 
ble  suspicion.  It  frightened  her— for  the  moment,  seemed 
to  stop  her  breath.  The  next  minute  David  was  gently 
scolding  her  for  listening  to  gossip,  asserting  his  belief  that 
Gussie  had  nothing  to  do  with  Mrs.  Hodson  and  her  car¬ 
riages. 

66  Why,  my  dear  child,  look  how  often  I  am  obliged  to 
be  there  on  business  with  Mr.  Hodson!  And  I  tell  you  I 
am  sure  Gussie  is  not  at  the  Lawns  once  a  week." 

David  hated  himself  for  this  speech;  but  he  was  too  deep 
in  tho  mire  now  to  draw  back  from  an  occasional  lie,  im¬ 
plied  or  spoken;  and  his  wife  was  in  a  mood  that  must  be 
satisfied,  he  thought. 

But  it  was  a  bad  sign  that  she  seemed  satisfied  so  easily; 
she  said  no  more  on  the  subject,  and,  if  David  had  under¬ 
stood  women  better,  he  would  have  been  alarmed. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Glyn  drove  to  the  Lawns  to  call  upon 
Mrs.  Hodson.  That  lady  was  out,  but  was  expected  to  re 
turn  immediately;  in  the  meantime,  would  Mrs.  Glyn  see 
the  young  ladies?  They  were  both  in  the  drawing-room. 


DORISES  FORTUM. 


109 


.Doris  decided  to  remain,  and  to  renew  the  acquaintance  of 
.Nellie  and  Ethel,  whom  she  had  not  seen  since  they  were 
children.  The  girls  “  took  "  to  her,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
were  chattering  to  her  on  very  friendly  terms. 

i6I  wish  you  "would  come  as  often  as  Mr.  Glyn,”  said 
the  elder  and  more  impulsive  one,  when  the  ice  was  broken. 
Doris  smiled  without  pleasure. 

“  He  goes  about  more  than  I  do.  " 

“  Why,  yes,  he's  always  here!''  said  Nellie,  with  a  tinge 
of  contempt. 

Doris  saw  the  younger  and  shrewder-looking  girl  give  a 
warning  glance  at  her  incautious  sister;  and  a  sharp  pain 
shot  through  her  heart  like  a  knife.  The  dull  pain  of  sus¬ 
pense  and  neglect  was  over;  she  was  jealous. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Doris  Glyn  felt  strongly  tempted,  on  feeling  the  sharp 
pang  which  the  two  little  girls  had  innocently  given  her, 
to  leave  the  Lawns  abruptly  and  hasten  home  to  prepare 
for  meeting  her  husband.  A  few  moments'  reflection  how¬ 
ever  was  enough  for  her  to  remember  that  she  really  had 
no  ground  for  demanding  the  explanation  she  wished  from 
him.  He  had  never  concealed  from  her  the  fact  that  he 
paid  frequent  visits  to  the  Lawns,  and  the  jealous  suspicions 
she  had  formed  in  a  moment,  based  upon  a  few  words  and  a 
look  passed  between  two  thoughtless  and  ignorant  young 
girls,  would  not  form  a  very  substantial  ground  foi  a  direct 
accusation.  So  she  decided,  while  still  listening  unintelli- 
gently  to  the  prattle  of  Nellie  and  Ethel,  that  she  would 
see  Mrs.  Hodson;  perhaps  the  meeting  would  either  allay 
her  jealousy  or  give  her  stronger  reasons  for  it.  Doris  felt 
besides  a  sudden  vivid  interest  in  the  woman  whom  she  be¬ 
lieved  to  be  her  rival  in  her  husband’s  affection;  she  must 
judge  for  herself  these  charms  for  which  she  had  been  neg¬ 
lected. 

She  had  not  to  wait  long.  When,  at  the  end  of  another 
ten  minutes,  a  loud  ring  at  the  bell  was  followed  by  Mrs. 
Hodson 's  high-pitched  bright  laugh  in  the  hall,  Doris's 
heart  began  to  beat  violently.  The  next  moment  it  seemed 
to  stand  still;  for  she  heard  her  own  husband's  sweet  low 
voice  in  tones  as  measured  as  usual,  but  more  cheerful  than 
those  he  kept  for  domestic  use. 


110 


Doris’s  fortuhe. 


Mrs.  Hodson  apparently  dashed  into  the  drawing-room 
before  the  servant  had  a  chance  of  telling  her  who  was 
there;  for,  as  the  door  opened  and  she  sailed  in  with  David 
in  her  train,  both  their  faces  suddenly  changed.  Of  course 
the  lady  recovered  herself  immediately,  and  rushed  impul¬ 
sively  up  to  Doris  with  outstretched  hands  and  such  expres¬ 
sions  as  are  usually  reserved  for  friends  returning  home 
after  long  and  dangerous  voyages.  But  David,  less  ex¬ 
perienced,  remained  a  light  yellow-green  color  during  the 
embarrassing  interview,  and  kept  as  much  in  the  back¬ 
ground  as  he  could.  Both  knew  that  Doris’s  unexpected 
call  was  more  than  a  regrettable  accident — both  would 
have  guessed  it  from  her  manner. 

She  did  not  express  any  surprise  at  seeing  her  hustand 
and  responded  to  Mrs.  Hodson’ s  warm  welcome  with  per¬ 
fect  though  somewhat  frigid  courtesy.  But  there  was  an 
entire  lack  of  spontaneity  in  every  word  she  uttered,  a 
statuesque  stillness  about  her  manner,  which  could  be  the 
result  only  of  a  stem  fight  with  emotions  too  strong  to  be 
allowed  the  least  vent. 

“  You  are  looking  very  pale  and  ill,  Mrs.  Glyn,”  said 
the  elder  lady  boldly,  resolved  not  to  find  her  guest’s  cold 
dignity  disconcerting.  That  is  the  worst  of  these  boys,” 
she  continued,  with  a  lively  and  contemptuous  nod  toward 
David;  “  when  they  marry,  they  don’t  in  the  least  know 
how  to  treat  a  wife.  I  am  always  telling  Mr.  Glyn  ” — 
somehow  Mrs.  Glyn’s  expression  seemed  to  preclude  the 
use  of  her  husband’s  Christian  name  before  her — “  that  he 
doesn’t  deserve  to  have  a  wife  at  all.” 

“  It  is  very  good  of  you,”  said  Doris. 

“  I  am  afraid  you  are  too  indulgent  with  him,”  con¬ 
tinued  Mrs.  Hodson  undauntedly.  I  don’t  believe  in 
letting  a  man  have  too  much  of  his  own  way.  You  should 
have  a  will  of  your  own,  and  let  him  know  it.  You  are 
spoiled,”  she  added,  turning  to  David. 

Dragged  thus  by  force  into  the  conversation,  he  said 
huskily — 

“  I  dare  say  I  am.  Most  women  are  too  good  for  their 
husbands.  ” 

A  spasm  of  pain  crossed  Doris’s  face.  Her  husband’s  re¬ 
mark  was  not  made  in  a  sneering  tone,  but  she  felt  in  a 
moment  that  it  formed  the  staple  of  any  complaint  he 
would  bring  against  her,  {She  was  too  good  for  him,  she 


DORIS’S  FORTUNE. 


Ill 


who  had  thought  herself  so  much  honored  by  his  choice  of 
her!  Mrs.  Hodson  came  to  the  rescue  in  what  would  have 
been  an  extremely  awkward  moment. 

“  Most  women?  All  women!”  she  said,  in  her  round 
emphatic  tone.  “  Even  Bertram  would  allow  that.  Now 
will  you  stay  and  dine  with  me?  My  husband  will  not  be 
home  to  dinner,  and  it  will  be  a  charity.  ” 

Doris  made  civil  excuses,  reflecting  that,  but  for  her  ap¬ 
pearance,  David  and  Mrs.  Hodson  would  have  passed  the 
evening  tete-a-tete ,  with  the  demure  little  girls  playing  open- 
eared  propriety.  As  it  was,  when  she  rose  to  go,  David 
had  no  choice  but  to  go  too. 

Mrs.  Hodson  was  very  snappish  and  silent  with  her  little 
girls  when  her  visitors  were  gone,  dropping  at  once  the 
brilliant  manner  for  the  domestic  one,  which  had  in  her 
case  few  charms.  Nellie  and  Ethel,  who,  while  kicking  a 
little  against  her  maternal  regime  of  suppression,  worshiped 
her  loyally  as  the  queen  of  the  world,  had  the  little  flicker- 
ings  of  liveliness  by  which  they  tried  to  entertain  her 
promptly  extinguished  in  a  most  galling  manner;  for  in 
the  inopportune  appearance  of  Doris  Glyn  that  afternoon 
Mrs.  Hodson  foresaw  more  than  the  spoiling  of  an  evening. 
So  did  David.  He  took  his  seat  in  the  brougham  by  his 
wife’s  side,  intrenched  in  the  sullen  silence  with  which  he 
meant  to  meet  her  torrents  of  righteous  wrath.  She  had 
never  given  him  a  “  lecture  ”  yet;  but  David,  convention¬ 
ally  minded  in  this  as  in  other  things,  cherished  a  great 
horror  of  a  woman’s  tongue,  and  a  belief  that  all  women 
were  at  heart  termagants,  more  or  less  restrained  by  good¬ 
breeding.  That  the  moment  was  ripe  for  good-breeding  to 
snap  in  his  wife’s  case  lie  did  not  doubt.  So  he  waited  for 
the  deluge. 

None  came.  Doris  sat  beside  him  as  silent  as  he,  until 
they  were  very  near  their  home.  Then  she  said,  in  a  voice 
almost  as  kind  as  usual,  though  there  was  a  break  in  it  now 
and  then — 

“  Shall  I  go  on  to  grandmamfria’s  and  ask  her  if  she  will 
come  in  and  dine  with  us  this  evening?  She  has  not  been 
with  us  for  four  days,  and  she  may  perhaps  begin  to  think 
herself  neglected.  ” 

“  It  is  very  thoughtful  of  you,”  said  David,  with  heart¬ 
felt  relief  at  the  prospect  of  a  third  person  to  break  that 
ghastly  silence  or  still  more  distressing  dialogue  which  was 


112  Boris’s  fomuhi. 

all  that  was  possible  that  evening  between  himself  and  hk 
wife. 

He  was  not  indeed  without  qualms  of  fear,  as  he  stepped 
out  of  the  brougham  and  told  the  coachman  to  drive  to 
Mrs.  Edgcombe’s,  lest  Doris  should  be  reserving  herself  for 
an  onslaught  upon  him  in  the  presence  of  a  person  whom 
in  the  meantime  she  would  have  turned  into  an  active  ally. 
But  he  had  to  own  to  himself  that  this  would  be  mean  and 
unlike  Doris;  and  he  was  not  surprised,  when  the  ladies 
returned  together,  to  find  the  elder  at  least  as  cheerful  and 
affectionate  as  usual.  He  had  one  fright,  however,  when 
dinner  was  over,  and  he  was  preparing  an  orange  for  the 
old  lady.  Mrs.  Edgcombe  cleared  her  throat  and  folded 
her  pretty  fragile  little  hands  one  in  the  other  as  her  custom 
was  when  she  had  anything  important  to  say. 

David  quaked,  and  the  knife  and  the  orange  remained 
for  a  moment  still  between  his  fingers. 

“  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  David,  to  which  I  shall 
be  glad  if  you  will  give  particular  attention.  It  is  a  matter 
on  which  Doris  has  just  spoken  to  me  herself,  and,  as  it 
concerns  the  welfare  of  both  of  you  very  nearly,  I  hope  you 
will  not  consider  that  I  am  taking  too  much  upon  myself 
in  mentioning  it  first.  ” 

It  was  an  alarming  preamble  to  listen  to  with  a  guilty 
conscience,  certainly,  though  the  dignified  manner  of  it 
was  but  a  habit  of  the  old  lady’s. 

“  Anything  you  have  to  say  will  of  course  have  all  my 
attention,”  he  answered  very  stiffly,  arming  himself  at  all 
points,  and  coldly  hating  Doris  for  putting  him  into  this 
intolerable  position  of  being  dictated  to  by  an  outsider. 

“  I  have  been  thinking,  and  Doris  agrees  with  me,  that 
you  both  want  a  change,  a  thorough  change.  Doris,  as 
you  must  see,  as  everybody  sees,  is  looking  like  the  ghost 
of  what  she  was  a  year  ago,  and  you  are  not  the  same  man 
at  all  that  you  were  before  you  got  so  much  absorbed  in  the 
affairs  of  the  city.  None  of  the  pretty  little  attentions  you 
used  to  pay  me  six  months  ago —  Why,  that  is  the  first 
orange  you  have  prepared  for  me  in  the  careful  way  I  like 
for  weeks!  You  are  growing  irritable,  and  your  irritability 
tells  on  poor  Doris;  I  can  see  it  myself,  though  she  never 
complains.  ” 

Doris  tried  to  interrupt  her;  but  the  old  lady  put  up  her 
little  hand,  and  went  on — 


Boris’s  fortune.  113 

*e  You  must  get  right  away  from  business  and  everything 
connected  with  it.” 

These  last  words,  innocently  said,  made  him  wince. 

‘ 4  You  have  had  no  honey-moon ;  you  would  carry  out  your 
new-fangled  ideas,  and  do  without  it.  But  the  old-fashioned 
way  is  the  best.  Be  entirely  dependent  upon  each  other’s 
society  for  a  little  while  among  strangers,  and  you  will  get 
used  to  each  other  and  grow  into  each  other’s  ways,  as  you 
have  never  yet  had  a  chance  of  doing.  ” 

Yes;  but  to  be  entirely  dependent  upon  each  other’s 
society  when  each  had  failed  to  like  it!  The  suggestion 
was  a  knell  in  David’s  ears;  for  he  knew  by  his  wife’s 
silence  that  she  acquiesced  in  the  proposed  arrangement, 
and  in  the  circumstances  he  was  not  in  a  position  to  refuse 
any  proposal  of  hers. 

“  Where  do  you  want  to  go,  Doris?”  he  asked,  in  a  voice 
which  did  not  sound  promising  for  the  threatened  lengthy 
tete-a-tete. 

6  6  Well,  even  grandmamma  would  not  propose  an  abso¬ 
lute  wilderness,  I  should  think.  WThat  do  you  say  to 
Paris?” 

“  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  it.  It  is  just  as  you  please.  ”  ' 

“  Paris  let  it  be  then,  and  let  us  go  soon,”  said  Doris 
quietly. 

David’s  manner  was  ungracious;  but  it  could  scarcely  be 
expected  to  be  anything  else  just  now.  His  affairs,  while 
under  his  own  control,  having  been  marvelously  ill-con¬ 
ducted,  were  being  gently  but  firmly  taken  out  of  his  hands; 
and  David  the  godlike,  in  the  position  of  a  naughty  boy 
found  out,  was  out  of  his  element  and  sufficiently  pitiable. 
Even  he  did  not  feel  the  bitter  pathos  of  the  situation  as 
keenly  as  Doris,  who  was  soon  as  anxious  to  get  rid  of  the 
innocent  old  grandmother,  whose  shrewdness  and  ingenu¬ 
ousness  were  alike  dangerous,  as  she  had  been  in  the  after¬ 
noon  to  get  her. 

When  David  returned  from  escorting  Mrs.  Edgcombe 
home,  he  found  Doris  engaged  in  the  drawing-room  pack¬ 
ing  away  in  cases  specially  made  for  the  purpose  certain  bits 
of  valuable  china  which  had  been  among  their  wedding- 
presents.  ' 

“  What  are  you  doing?”  he  asked  somewhat  sullenly. 

“  Putting  these  little  things  out  of  reach  of  the  servants 
fingers  while  we  are  away/’ 


114 


DOKIS*S  FOKTUKE. 


“  When  do  you  propose  to  go  then?” 

“  Can’t  we  be  ready  by  the  day  after  to-morrow?” 

David  spoke  “  a  hundred  miles  away  ”  from  her. 

“  And  what  is  to  become  of  my  business — your  business^ 
Affairs  in  the  city  are  in  a  very  critical  state  just  now.” 

Indeed  they  were  in  a  state  more  critical  for  him  than  he 
knew.  \ 

“  You  can  leave  the  business  safely  in  the  hands  of  a 
man  in  whom  you  place  such  absolute  confidence  as  you 
do  in— your  financial  adviser,  surely?  And  at  your  office 
you  have  only  to  ask  to  get  your  holiday  when  you  please. 
Isn’t  that  so,  David?” 

He  muttered  an  unwilling  assent,  and  turned  toward  the 
door.  His  wife’s  heart  leaped  up.  If  this  were  shame  at 
his  own  conduct,  there  was  hope  for  them  yet.  She  flew 
across  the  room,  and  stopped  him  on  the  threshold  with  a 
gentle  hando 

“  David,  David,  don’t  you  want  to  go  away  with  me? 
Won’t  you  try  to  be  happy  with  me?” 

David  was  not  hard,  though  in  his  weakness  he  often 
had  to  shield  himself  behind  a  dull  reserve  which  made 
him  appear  so.  At  his  wife’s  appealing  cry  he  stopped  at 
once;  but  there  was  no  flood  of  devoted  affection  rushing 
up  from  her  heart  to  impel  her  to  encircle  him  with  loving 
arms  and  win  him  to  her  then  and  forever.  Timidly,  ap¬ 
pealingly,  she  crept  up  to  him,  and,  with  modest,  humble 
glances,  looked  into  his  face  and  failed  utterly  to  read 
through  the  cold  blank  blue  eyes  the  need  he  felt  of  some 
emotion  stronger  than  his  own  to  break  through  the  crust 
of  his  daily  self  and  get  at  the  better  man  within  him  that 
had  not  the  courage  to  break  its  own  bonds  of  custom.  In¬ 
deed  Doris  felt  no  passionate  affection  for  this  pretty  gen¬ 
tleman,  who  had  treated  her,  in  a  perfectly  calm  and  well- 
bred  way,  as  badly  as  such  a  pretty  gentleman  could  do. 
Her  reverence  for  him  had,  with  scarcely  any  preparation, 
given  place  to  a  chaotic  confusion  of  feelings  in  which  in¬ 
dignation  ancl^  contempt  struggled  with  womanly  pity  and 
forbearance  toward  the  man  who,  after  all,  was  her  hus¬ 
band,  the  companion  bound  to  her  for  a  life  which,  how¬ 
ever  one’s  ignorant  illusions  about  it  might  be  shattered, 
one  was  still  bound  to  make  the  best  of.  This  attitude  was 
of  course  not  tender  or  emotional  enough  to  strike  into  an 


Doris’s  fortune.  11,1 

ardent  flame  whatever  love  he  still  had  for  his  wife.  He 
only  said  gently— 

“  Oh,  ye s,  we  both  want  a  change— you  especially,  I  am 
sure!”  And  then,  after  waiting  for  a  moment  for  the  out¬ 
burst  which  was  further  off  than  ever,  he  left  her  to  her¬ 
self. 

Two  days  later  they  started  for  Paris.  David  did  not 
dare  to  see  either  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Hodson  again,  restrained  by 
mingled  feelings  in  which  perhaps  shame  and  embarrass¬ 
ment  at  his  new  position  had  the  largest  share.  He  con¬ 
tented  himself  with  writing  letters  tot  both — to  the  former 
a  purely  business  communication,  to  the  latter  a  civil  note 
regretting  that  he  was  leaving  for  Paris  without  a  chance 
©f  wishing  her  gooi-bye— not  an  affectionate  note  by  any 
means,  but  one  in  which  the  ingenious  Mrs.  Hodson  could 
read  between  the  lines  that  her  hold  upon  him  was  not 
relaxed. 

On  the  contrary,  after  the  first  few  days  of  this  deferred 
mock  honey-moon,  David  felt  more  than  ever  the  need  of 
the  vivacious  society  of  the  broker’s  wife.  Had  he  been  by 
himself  in  Paris,  he  might  have  found  stimulating  attrac¬ 
tions;  but  the  duet  of  perpetual  good  behavior  between  him 
and  his  wife  made  the  boulevards  dull,  sight-seeing  a  bore 
to  both  of  them.  Doris’s  natural  cheerfulness  and  ready 
wit,  which  had  easily  earned  for  the  young  heiress  the  repu¬ 
tation  of  brilliancy,  deserted  her  and  left  her  spiritless  and 
leaden  in  the  never-ending  strain  to  afford  her  husband  a 
pleasure  which  her  society  seemed  incapable  of  yielding 
him.  He  on  his  side  conscientiously  tried  to  meet  her  half¬ 
way,  and  his  forced  attention  and  liveliness  made  her  regret 
his  old  taciturnity.  So  they  passed  a  horrible  fortnight  of 
new  constraint  worse  than  the  old,  which  the  one  had  not 
the  courage  and  the  other  had  not  the  will  to  attempt  to 
break,  until  a  startling  piece  of  news  from  England  released 
them  from  this  galling  bondage. 

It  was  the  announcement,  in  an  English  paper,  of  Mr. 
Hodson’s  failure  on  the  Stock  Exchange. 

David  was  at  breakfast  with  his  wife  when  he  read  a  para¬ 
graph  containing  the  tidings  in  the  “  Times”  of  the  day 
before.  Doris  saw  him  turn  white,  and  asked  timidly  what 
was  the  matter. 

“Mr.  Hodson  has  failed,”  he  said,  in  a  tone  he  could 
scarcely  keep  tranquil. 


116 


doris’s  fortuhb. 


“  Oh,  I  am  sorry!”  she  returned,  in  a  low  voice,  after  a 
moment’s  shy  pause.  Then,  as  her  husband  rose  from  his 
chair,  she  asked  diffidently,  “  Will  it  affect  you?” 

“Yes;  and  that  unfortunately  includes  you,”  he  ad* 
mitted,  in  a  dull  measured  voice. 

“  Oh,  never  mind  that!”  cried  Doris,  with  animation, 
as,  seeing  a  hope  that  this  might  perhaps  help  to  bring 
them  together,  she  got  up  and  almost  ran  to  him.  “  What 
does  that  matter?  You  did  your  best," and  money  is  such  a 
trifling  thing  between  husband  and  wife,  between — you  and 
— me.  It  can’t  be  helped,  and,  if  we  have  lost  anything, 
if  we  have  lost  a  great  deal  even,  it  will  not  trouble  me  at 
ail.  ”  1 

“  I  can  not  take  the  matter  like  that,  Doris,  ”  said  he 
gently,  but  avoiding  her  eyes.  “  I  must  go  back  to  Lon¬ 
don  this  very  day,  and  see  what  the  position  of  affairs  really 
is,  and  what  is  to  be  done.” 

“  We  must  go  back?”  she  faltered,  with  the  slightest 
possible  emphasis  on  the  pronoun. 

“No,  no,  not  you.  I  shall  travel  in  a  hurry  and  may 
be  back*  to-morrow.  You  won’t  mind  being  left  by  your¬ 
self  just  for  a  day,  will  you?” 

Doris  looked  at  him  imploringly;  she  dared  not  venture 
to  plead  in  words;  away  from  her  grandmother,  with  no 
one  to  support  her  proposals,  she  felt  timid;  and  the  result 
of  her  first  move  toward  complete  confidence  had  been  too 
appallingly  barren  for  her  to  be  bold  again.  So  she 
packed  his  things  herself,  and  saw  him  off  with  a  horrible 
sense  of  loneliness  and  longing. 

“  You  will  come  back  soon,  won’t«you?”  she  entreated 
with  all -possible  sweetness  and  docility,  as  he  gave  her  a 
warm  but  well-bred  hand-pressure  in  the  publicity  of  the 
barrier  at  the  station. 

And  he  said,  “Yes,”  of  course  he  would,  smiling  at 
her  much  more  brightly  than  he  had  done  since  their  com¬ 
ing  to  Paris. 

Rut  Doris  watched  him  disappear  from,  her  sight  with 
fear  at  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  X7I. 

It  was  past  seven  o’clock  and  qui^e  dark  when,  bv  her 
husband’s  departure,  Doris  found  herself  alone  in  Paris, 


doris's  fortune. 


11? 

She  waited  at  the  barrier  until  the  whistle  and  steaming  of 
the  engine  announced  that  the  train  had  left  the  station; 
and  then,  turning  very  slowly  and  absently,  she  made  her 
way  back  to  the  fiacre  in  which  she  and  David  had  come. 
Her  husband  had  wanted  Whitaker,  the  maid,  to  accom¬ 
pany  them  to  the  station,  in  order  that  Doris  might  not  be 
alone  when  he  left  her.  But  she  had  rejected  the  proposal, 
moved  by  a  strong  but  timid  hope  that  during  the  last 
quarter  of  an  hour  together  some  impulse  of  affection  to¬ 
ward  the  young  wife  he  was  leaving  might  move  David,  and 

five  her  the  opportunity  she  longed  for  of  opening  her 
eart  to  him  and  pouring  out  the  sweet  loving  words  which 
were  ready  to  come  straight  from  her  very  soul  on  the  least 
encouragement,  and  so  prepare  the  way  for  a  happy  meet¬ 
ing  on  his  return  to  Paris. 

But  David  had  given  her  no  such  encouragement.  She 
had  sat  beside  him  on  the  narrow  seat  of  the  little  coupe,  so 
near  to  him  that  she  wondered  he  did  not  hear  the  beating 
of  her  heart  or  feel  the  tremor  that  shook  her  limbs.  He 
gave  her  most  full  and  particular  directions  to  take  care  of 
herself,  with  more  animation  than  usual  in  his  soft  voice. 
But  it  was  not  a  sympathetic  cheerfulness,  being  apparent¬ 
ly  excited  by  no  more  tender  feeling  than  exhilaration  of 
spirits  at  the  prospect  of  leaving  her.  And  now  he  was 
gone,  and  the  strain  of  receiving  his  elaborate  civility  with 
an  appearance  of  gratitude  was  over;  and  Doris  got  into 
the  coupe  again,  feeling  that  the  second  honey-moon  had 
been  a  far  more  disastrous  failure  than  the  first. 

“  A  Vhotel ,  madame  V’  asked  the  driver. 

Doris  hesitated.  It  was  not  much  past  seven:  she  had 
dined  already  with  David;  there  was  a  long,  long,  dreary 
evening  to  be  got  through  alone. 

“  Au  Bois/9  said  she. 

So,  at  the  delightfully  slow  pace  of  the  carriage  hired  by 
the  hour,  she  was  driven  through  the  Champs  Elysees,  the 
avenue,  and  along  the  now  dark  roads  of  the  Bois  de  Bou¬ 
logne  It  was  a  cheerless  excursion,  and,  finding  that  the 
blank  dreariness  of  the  coldly  shining  water  and  the  sway¬ 
ing  leafless  trees  failed  to  heip  her  thoughts  to  any  profita¬ 
ble  practical  issue,  she  was  glad  to  turn  back  to  the  bright 
lights  of  the  city. 

Th e  fiacre  was  approaching  the  boulevards  again,  when  a 
wish  struck  her  for  active  exercise  to  ease  the  burden  of  her 


118 


Doris’s  portxjK^. 


thought;  and,  with  the  daring  of  the  Englishwoman,  she 
got  out,  paid  the  driver,  and  continued  her  progress  on 
foot.  The  street  in  which  she  had  stopped  was  rather  dark, 
very  narrow,  and  almost  deserted.  Doris  could  see  bright 
lights  and  hear  the  loud  hum  of  traffic  at  the  further  end. 

As  she  walked  on  quickly,  feeling  already  some  sense  of 
her  own  hardihood  as  she  remembered  that  she  would  have 
to  ask  the  way  to  her  hotel,  she  came  suddenly  upon  a  little 
group  of  figures  crouching  in  a  door-way.  Miserable  ob¬ 
jects  they  were — a  man,  a  woman,  and  a  child,  slinking 
through  the  darkest  streets  by  easy  stages,  creeping  into 
holes  and  corners  to  rest  and  to  evade  the  sharp  eyes  of  the 
Paris  police,  while  they  plied  their  wretched  trade  of  beg- 
ging. 

Doris’s  heart  was  stirred,  not  by  pity,  but  by  a  strange 
illogical  envy,  as  she  saw  the  man  draw  the  woman’s  un¬ 
kempt  head  down  upon  his  shoulder.  The  tears  rushed  to 
her  eyes  as  she  walked  on.  Happy  even  in  their  wretched¬ 
ness  these  poor  creatures  must  be,  she  thought — she  who 
was  beginning  to  feel  that  she  would  surrender  everything 
which  she  had  been  taught  to  look  upon  as  necessary  to 
her  very  existence  just  to  remove  that  slight  upon  her 
womanhood,  her  husband’s  neglect.  Then  she  heard  a  soft 
shuffling  patter  of  footsteps  behind  her,  and  a  woman’s 
whining  voice  imploring  “  the  dear  lady  to  whom  Heaven 
had  given  everjr  blessing  to  have  pity  on  poor  wretches 
without  a  roof  or  a  crust.” 

Doris  stopped,  took  out  her  purse,  and  gave  generously, 
foolishly,  hurrying  on  afterward,  but  not  before  the  woman, 
too  much  overwhelmed  to  remember  her  set  formula  of 
commonplace  blessings,  had  flown  stealthily  back  to  the 
corner  where  her  wretched  companions  awaited  her. 

Doris  was  in  the  sensitive  mood  to  profit  by  a  great  les¬ 
son.  The  chance  contact  of  her  own  misery,  which  she 
had  considered  overwhelming,  with  another  sort  of  misery 
which  she  had  to  acknowledge  was  more  acute  still,  opened 
her  mind  quite  suddenly  to  two  new  ideas.  The  one  was 
that  even  people  whom  she  envied  might  be  more  unhappy 
than  she  was;  the  other,  that,  since  she  was  an  object  of 
envy  to  other  people,  perhaps  it  was  only  fair  that  she 
should  have  trials  too. 

And  Doris  bore  her  suspense  more  patiently  after  that, 
and  also  the  little  shock  caused  two  mornings  later  by  Da' 


doris’s  eortuhe. 


ii.9 

vid’s  letter.  He  was  sorry  he  could  not  return  to  Paris 
immediately;  their  affairs  had  been  even  more  seriously 
affected  by  Mr.  Hodson’s  failure  than  he  had  expected.  He 
apologized  lengthily,  elaborately,  with  stiff  and  awkward 
humility  and  penitence,  for  having  embarked  in  specula¬ 
tions  with  her  money,  which  however  he  had  had  every 
reason  for  considering  safe;  and  he  wound  up  by  saying 
that,  in  order  that  she  might  not  be  dull  without  him,  he 
had  already  dispatched  Hilda  Warren  to  bear  her  company 
until  he  could  come  to  fetch  her  himself. 

Doris  resented  this  letter  at  first,  and  felt  that  David  had 
no  right,  since  he  could  not  or  would  not  come  to  her  him¬ 
self,  to  foist  another  person  upon  her  without  consulting 
her.  But,  when  that  evening  the  young  girl  arrived,  and, 
warned  by  a  telegram,  Doris  met  her  at  the  station,  the 
lonely  wife  could  not  fail  to  feel  comforted  by  the  sight  of 
a  bright  and  familiar  face. 

Hilda  at  first  showed  some  reserve  in  her  mention  of  Da¬ 
vid;  but  Doris,  guessing  from  this  that  she  knew  something 
ji  the  strained  relations  between  her  and  her  husband,  de¬ 
termined  to  force  the  girl  to  be  frank. 

“  You  have  seen  my  husband,  Hilda?”  she  asked  ab¬ 
ruptly,  when  dinner  was  oven 

“Yes;  he  called  to  ask  mamma  to  let  me  come.” 

“  Did  he  say  anything  about  coming  over  himself — 
when  he  should  come,  for  instance?”  resumed  the  young 
wife  diffidently. 

“  No,”  answered  Hilda  shortly.  Then,  with  an  outburst 
of  passionate  sympathy,  she  continued,  “  Don’t  talk  about 
him;  it  makes  me  ill.  He  is  your  husband,  I  know;  but  to 
hear  you,  young,  beautiful,  clever,  and  good  as  you  are, 
worrying  yourself  about  that  ungrateful,  cold-blooded  rattle¬ 
snake  is  too  much  for  my  patience!  Leave  him  to  that 
woman,  Doris,  and  let  her  pick  his  very  bones.  ” 

Bat  Doris,  instead  of  taking  fire  at  this  confirmation  of 
her  fears,  began  meekly  to  cry  in  most  weak-minded  fash¬ 
ion. 

“He  went  back  for  her  then — for  Mrs.  Hodson?”  she 
quavered  out,  very  intent  on  the  contents  of  an  etagdre  by 
her  side. 

“  Yes,  of  course.  You  were  too  good  for  him,  Doris.  1 
like  men  much  better  than  women,  as  a  rule,  as  you  know. 
But  you  are  different  from  oibc”  women,  and  I  really  think. 


I  %0  DORISES  FORTUKR.  * 

Doris,  you  ought  never  to  have  condescended  to  care  for 
any  man.” 

Doris  had  risen  from  her  chair,  and  was  wandering  about 
the  room.  She  came  and  stood  behind  Hilda,  and  spoke 
very  sadly,  though  she  tried  to  be  playful. 

“  Certainly  I  am  a  failure  as  a  wife.” 

“  No;  David  is  a  failure  as  a  husband.” 

“  But  he  would  not  have  been  a  failure  as  the  husband 
of  Mrs.  Hodson. ” 

“  And  you  wouldn’t  have  been  a  failure  as  the  wife  of — 
Gussie  Melton!” 

“Hush!”  said  Doris  peremptorily;  but,  after  another 
aimless  ramble  as  far  as  the  window  and  back  again,  she 
leaned  over  the  chair  she  had  been  using,  and  said,  “  It  is 
too  late  to  be  reticent  now.  What  do  you  mean  about 
Gussie?  You  want  to  make  a  romance  out  of  nothing.” 

“  N o,  I  don’t.  I  am  tired  of  romances.” 

“  Tired?  How  about  Charlie  Papillon?” 

“Charlie?” — with  a  hard  struggle  to  be  indifferent. 
“  Oh,  Charlie  is  going  to  marry  that  rich  umbrella-mak¬ 
er’s  daughter,  Binks,  or  Jinks,  or  something  like  that  her 
name  is;  but  she  will  have  two  thousand  a  year!” 

“  Oh,  Hilda,  I’m  so  sorry!” 

“Are  your  I’m  not.  I  knew  it  must  end  somehow 
like  that;  and  it  might  have  ended  worse.  I  am  a  little 
sore,  of  course;  but  you  have  no  idea  how  quickly  I  should 
get  over  it  if  only  a  young  gentleman  with  two  thousand  a 
year  would  turn  up  to  pair  off  with  me.” 

“  You  don’t  mean  that?” 

“Yes;  I  do;”  and  Hilda  looked  up  and  nodded  most 
honestly,  with  a  quaint  shrewd  face  to  which  feeling  and 
intelligence  gave  variable  and  interesting  expression. 

“You  are  an  odd  girl,  Hilda.  I  think  you  have  read 
too  much  Thackeray  and  seen  too  many  of  Gilbert’s  plays.” 

“  I’  ve  seen  too  much  of  life  and  known  too  many  people 
—not  only,  as  you  have,  on  launches  and  in  ball-rooms, 
where  to  me,  who  know  them  better,  they  seem  mere  ape¬ 
like  caricatures  of  themselves;  and  I  have  learned  to  take 
life  as  it  comes,  as  so  many  of  the  pretty  young  men  of 
your  acquaintance  do;  to  live  a  little  brightly  in  the  world, 
and  a  great  deal  gloomily  out  of  it;  to  be  prepared  to  see 
love  ride  away,  and  to  be  thankful  the  very  same  morning 
that  butter  has  gone  down  twopence  in  the  pound.  That 


DORISES  FORSlJKEc  121 

sort  of  experience  is  worth  all  the  Gilbert  and  Thackeray 
in  the  world  for  making  one  cynical.  " 

“  I've  never  heard  you  talk  like  this  before,  Hilda.  " 

“  No.  Talk  like  that  would  have  had  no  meaning  to 
you  once.  You  see,  although  you  have  been  in  the  world 
two  or  three  years  longer  than  I  have,  you  know  compara¬ 
tively  little  of  it.  If  you  had  been  happy  in  your  married 
life,  I  should  never  have  disturbed  your  innocent  igno¬ 
rance;  but  trouble  makes  the  pretty  wax- work  human,  and 
so — and  so  you  have  the  noble  privilege  of  seeing  my  char¬ 
acter  in  all  its  revolting  mercenariness.  " 

Doris  laughed  softly  as  she  looked  into  the  young  face 
somewhat  lined  already  by  thought  and  passion. 

“  Poor  child!”  she  said  gently.  Then  she  added,  after 
a  short  pause,  “  I  am  glad  you  have  spoken  plainly  to  me. 
What  you  say  about  trouble  is  true,  I  think — I  seem  able  to 
understand  better  than  I  used  to  do.  And,  now  that  I  have 
a  sorrow  of  my  own,  I  feel  so  very  differently  about  other 
people's  sorrows — they  are  not  only  jjjst  words  now.  I  be¬ 
gin  to  think  that,  if  I  had  had  some  trouble  before  I  mar¬ 
ried,  David  would  have  found  me  more  interesting — -less 
like  wax- work." 

Hilda  was  sorry  she  had  used  that  word;  but  it  was  too 
late  to  repent  it  now. 

The  next  moment  Doris,  with  a  new  warmth  in  her  kind¬ 
ness,  was  asking  her  young  guest  what  sh^  would  like  to 
see  next  day;  and  they  avoided  dangerous  subjects  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening. 

A  laborious  programme  of  sight-seeing  was  arranged  for 
the  benefit  of  Hilda,  who  had  not  been  in  Paris  since  she 
was  a  child;  and  the  next  morning  Doris  spoke,  on  their 
first  meeting,  of  nothing  but  the  business  of  the  day.  Yet 
her  companion  was  shrewd  enough  to  notice  that  it  required 
an  effort  for  her  to  keep  her  attention  from  wandering, 
and  that  the  young  wife's  face  fell  when  the  post  from  Eng¬ 
land  came  and  brought  only  one  letter.  This  was  from 
Mrs.  Edgcombe,  and,  after  reading  it,  Doris  sat  in  silence 
for  some  moments;  then,  meeting  Hilda's  sympathetically 
inquiring  eyes,  she  said,  in  a  low  voice: 

‘‘  My  grandmother  knows  nothing,  has  heard  nothing. 
And  yet  she  has  seen  David.  He  may  come  yet.  You  see, 
things  arc  not  so  bad  as  you  thought.  I — I  will  write;  I 
cun  now.” 


122 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


Doris’s  placid  innocent  face  had  lost*'all  its  calm  beauty1 
Hilda  felt  a  great  throb  of  pity  for  her,  knowing  well  what 
acute  misery  the  change  betokened. 

“  Don’t  trouble  yourself  so  much  about  him,  Doris.  He 
isn’t  worth  it,”  she  whispered,  putting  her  arms  round  her 
friend,  as  she  had  never  before  thought  of  doing  to  that 
majestic  young  woman.  “  It  will  all  come  right  again.  He 
will  never  have  the  pluck  to  run  away  with  her,  and  she  is 
the  last  person  to  be  carried  away  by  her  emotions  or  any- 
thing  else.  He  will  come  cringing  back  to  you,  and  then 
you  will  have  him  at  your  mercy  and  can  walk  upon  him 
as  much  as  you  like.” 

This  vague  satisfaction  seemed  the  most  appropriate  to 
suggest  to  a  stately  lady  like  Doris,  too  much  bound  by  the 
laws  of  convention  to  break  away  altogether  from  her  hus¬ 
band,  too  timid  to  make  any  strong  efforts  to  win  him 
back.  Indeed  Doris  presented,  during  the  whole  of  that 
day,  a  most  puzzling  problem  to  her  more  worldly-wise 
friend.  After  having  received  Hilda’s  cynical  attempts  at 
comfort  with  only  a  gentle  remonstrance,  she  again  became 
reserved  on  the  subject  which  was  engrossing  her  thoughts 
and  feelings,  and  devoted  herself,  with  a  grace  which  com¬ 
panionship  with  the  unsympathetic  David  had  taught  her, 
to  appearing  interested  in  the  long  rooms  full  of  pictures  at 
the  Louvre  and  the  Luxembourg,  which  were  a  source  of 
real  delight  to  the  young  artist. 

On  their  return  to  the  hotel  an  hour  before  dinner-time, 
Doris  shut  herself  up  in  her  bedroom  to  write  a  letter  to 
her  husband;  she  had  every  word  of  it  ready  in  her  head, 
so  that  she  wrote  it,  folded  it,  went  down-stairs,  and  with 
her  own  hand  dropped  it  into  the  letter-box  within  a  quar¬ 
ter  of  an  hour  of  her  return. 

This  was  the  letter: 

“  My  dear  David,— I  am  very  unhappy  now  that  you 
are  gone  away.  I  never  was  so  unhappy  before;  and  this 
makes  me  think  that  perhaps  you,  who  are  older  than  I  by 
eight  years,  can  not  have  passed  thirty-two  years  of  life 
without  trouble,  have  found  me  unsympathetic  through  my 
not  having  known  so  many  feelings  as  you  have  known.  I 
think  it  has  very  likely  made  me  seem  cold  and  conceited, 
so  that  there  has  been  no  sympathy  between  us  because  we 
did  not  understand  each  other.  I  can  not  express  what  I 


DORIS'S  FORTUM. 


125 


mean  very  well;  but  I  feel  so  many  feelings  now*  angry 
ones  and  sad  ones  and  loving  ones,  that  all  seem  new  and 
strange  to  me,  that  I  can  not  write  much  for  fear  of  saying 
something  that  will  offend  you  and  make  you  stay  away 
from  me  longer.  If  you  will  only  come,  I  will  try  to  please 
you  harder  than  I  have  done,  and,  if  you  are  unhappy  I 
will  be  sorry  too — I  will  indeed!  Please  do  come,  if  you 
care  ever  so  little  for 

“  Your  affectionate  wife, 

“*Doris.  ” 


Then  she  went  into  the  sitting-room  to  dinner,  with  a 
feeling  that  she  had  taken  a  very  bold  step  indeed,  and  an 
anxious  flutter  of  the  heart  as  to  the  fate  of  the  letter,  every 
sentence  of  which  rang  again  and  again  in  her  mind,  while 
she  tremblingly  asked  herself.  Was  it  too  cold?  Was  it  too 
bold?  Would  it  leave  him  as  untouched  as  her  shrinking 
caresses  used  to  do? 

Both  Doris  and  Hilda  were  rather  silent  at  dinner,  for 
which  the  fatigue  of  sight-seeing  made  a  satisfactory  excuse. 
The  situation  was  growing  too  serious  for  discussion  of  tri¬ 
fling  subjects,  while  the  presence  of  the  waiters  closed  their 
lips  on  serious  ones. 

Dessert  was  on  the  table  when  a  card  was  brought  in 
with  the  information  that  a  gentleman  wished  to  see  ma- 
dame. 

Doris’s  face  grew  pale  with  anxiety,  Hilda’s  red  with  in¬ 
dignation,  when  they  read  the  name — “  Mr.  Augustus  Mel¬ 
ton.  ” 

“  You  won’t  see  him,  will  you?”  asked  Hilda,  in  a  low 
voice. 

I  must  know  why  he  has  come,”  murmured  Doris. 

I  will  see  him  for  you,  if  you  like.  You  can  go  into 

your  room.  ” 

Doris  seemed  relieved.  Hilda  looked  straight  into  her 
friend’s  eyes  after  the  waiter  had  gone  down-stairs  to  escort 
the  gentleman  up. 

“  You  would  rather  not  see  him  yourself,  seriously?” 
she  asked  gravely. 

“  I  would  rather  not,  indeed,  just  now.  But  I  am  deep¬ 
ly,  miserably  anxious  to  know  why  he  has  come.  I  am 
afraid  his  coming  means — ” 

~  Ill-luck.  I  shall  tell  him  so,”  said  Hilda  promptly. 


C( 


ec 


12  4 


BORISES  FORTUNE. 


“  Don’t  be  harsh  to  him/’  said  Doris,  as  she  put  hei 
hand  on  the  door  which  led  straight  from  the  sitting-room 
into  her  bedroom.  “  He  is  a  kind-hearted  fellow.  He 
showed  me  the  most  warm-hearted  sympathy  when  I  was 
unhappy  a  little  while  ago.  ” 

“  He  has  no  business  to  bring  his  sympathy  here  now!” 
answered  Hilda,  with  ferocity. 

And,  as  she  closed  the  door  abruptly  on  Doris  and  seated 
herself  in  an  attitude  of  rigid  dignity  by  the  table  to  receive 
Mr.  Augustus  Melton,  her  pretty  face  expressed  a  very 
strong  determination  to  “  let  him  have  it.” 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

When  Mr.  Augustus  Melton,  all  fire  and  impetuosity, 
dashed  into  the  sitting-room  where  he  expected  to  find 
Doris  Glyn,  he  grew  suddenly  calm  and  meek  and  crest¬ 
fallen  on  finding  himself  face  to  face  with  another  lady. 

“  How  do  you  do?”  said  Hilda,  with  a  very  frigid  bend 
of  the  head. 

“  Oh — er — I’m  quite  well,  thank  you!  Very  glad  to  see 
you.  Er — where  is — er — Mrs.  Glyn?” 

“  Mrs.  Glyn  has  asked  me  to  see  you  for  her,  as  she  does 
not  feel  equal  to  receiving  visitors  this  evening.” 

“  Visitors?  No.  But  she  might  see  me,  I  should 
think.  ” 

“Unfortunately  Mrs.  Glyn  does  not  see  any  reason  for 
making  a  distinction.  ” 

“  I  don’t  know  what  you  mean,  Miss  Warren,”  broke 
out  Gussie  violently.  “  t  tell  you  I  must  see  Doris.” 

“  Hardly  against  her  will,  I  should  think !  Even  you 
would  scarcely  venture  on  that.” 

“  I  tell  you  I  have  news  for  her  of  the  most  vital  impor¬ 
tance.” 

“  Then  you  may  intrust  it  to  me,  and  I  will  undertake 
to  convey  it  to  her  in  the  most  accurate  manner.  ” 

Again  and  again  Gussie  glanced  at  the  closed  folding- 
doors,  as  if  he  suspected  Doris  to  be  within  hearing,  and 
hoped  that  his  words  might  bring  her  out.  But  Hilda  ap¬ 
parently  paid  no  heed  to  the  direction  of  his  eyes,  and  re¬ 
mained  so  indifferent  that  he  ended  by  keeping  his  gaze 
fixed  upon  her. 


DORICS  FORTUHE. 


125 

“  What  I  have  to  say  concerns  her  husband;  it  can  not 
be  told  her  too  gently. " 

“  Then  it  is  as  well  that  the  telling  should  not  be  in  your 
hands. 99 

Gussie,  who  had  been  busily  brushing  his  hat  with  his 
hand,  now  grasped  it  firmly  and  rose. 

“  Sit  down  and  say  what  you  have  to  say,  to  me/*  said 
Hilda  imperiously;  and,  after  standing  for  a  moment  in  an 
attitude  of  heroic  indignation,  he  sat  down. 

“  Mr.  Hodson  has  failed  on  the  Stock  Exchange  and  has 
run  away  from  his  wife;  and  she  has  run  away  from  him, 
and  David  Glyn  has  run  after  her/*  he  blurted  out  simply. 

Hilda  sat  quite  still,  with  her  head  tilted  at  the  same  con¬ 
temptuous  angle  as  before,  and  uttered  a  short  ejaculation 
of  supreme  disgust. 

“  And  do  you  think  that  would  be  a  proper  communica¬ 
tion  to  make  to  Mrs.  Glyn?** 

“  At  any  rate,  it  is  something  she  must  know.** 

“  And  something  you  are  glad  to  be  able  to  tell!**  she 
cried,  her  tone  changing  suddenly  into  one  of  the  utmost 
ferocity.  “  Here  are  tidings  shocking  enough  to  kill  a 
sensitive  woman  like  Doris,  and  you  ring  them  out  with 
triumph,  thinking  that  one  man's  fall  must  be  another 
man's  victory!'* 

“  She  can  get  a  divorce/*  suggested  Gussie,  in  a  low 
voice. 

“  What  would  she  gain  by  that?** 

“  She  would  be  free." 

To  take  another  of  you,  I  suppose!  She  will  be  in  a 
great  hurry  to  do  that  after  such  an  experience!'* 

“  You  are  too  hard.  Miss  Warren/*  said  Gussie  uneasily, 
moving  restlessly  on  his  chair  and  looking  at  his  hat. 
“  Men  are  not  all  alike,  any  more  than  women  are.  You 
don't  think  that — that  I  would  have  treated  a — a  woman 
so?" 

“  No;  but  you  would  have  done  something  a  great  deal 
worse  if  I  hadn't  happened  to  be  here." 

Gussie  started,  and  looked  up  with  a  hot  angry  flush  on 
his  face.  But  Hilda  continued  pitilessly — 

“  You  know  how  delicate  a  woman's  position  is  when 
her  husband  abandons  her;  and  yet,  without  a  moment's 
thought  for  her  name,  you  bounce  over  here,  all  passion 
and  sympathy  and  goodness  knows  what,  to  show  up  your 


126 


DORIS'S  FORTUNE. 


own  beautiful  devotion  in  sharp  contrast  to  the  other  man's 
neglect,  never  caring  what  the  consequences  may  be,  ready 
to  risk  what  people  may  say  of  her,  or  the  danger  of  her 
husband's  turning  round  upon  her  and  declaring  that  it 
was  well-founded  jealousy  which  made  him  cruel.  Oh,  you 
men  are  noble  creatures!  I  am  glad  I  was  born  a  woman, 
that  I  may  have  the  privilege  of  falling  down  and  worship¬ 


ing  you 


v> 


“  How  dare  you  say  such  things  to  me!  How  dare  you 
talk  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  cur!  You  abuse  your  feminine 
privilege  when  you  say  such  things  to  a  man  as  that." 

“  I  am  sorry  your  delicate  ears  should  have  to  listen  to 
such  unpleasant  truths.  And  now,  having  given  your  mes¬ 
sage,  don't  you  think  you  had  better  leave  the  delivery  of 
it  to  me?  I  will  put  your  conduct  in  its  most  chivalrous 
light,  I  assure  you." 

“  You  are  too  hard;  you  will  be  sorry  some  day  for  hav¬ 
ing  spoken  to  me  like  this.  Perhaps  I  have  been  rash;  but 
I  have  been  nothing  worse.  I  never  thought  of  what  peo¬ 
ple  would  say;  I  only  thought  of  her  being  alone  without 
any  friends.  And  she  has  always  treated  me  like  a  boy, 
and  so,  like  a  hot-headed  fool,  I  came.  I  am  sorry  now. 
I  will  go  back  to-night,  if  I  can,  and  nobody  shall  know  I 
came.  And — and  I  am  sure,  if  you  have  any  heart  at  all, 
and  if  you  are  not  all  tongue  " — with  a  resentful,  wound¬ 
ed  look  at  her — “  you  will  be  sorry  presently  for  having 
spoken  to  me  like  that.  And — and  I  wish  I  could  leave 
her  in  the  hands  of  a  sweeter  comforter.  Good-evening, 
Miss  Warren." 


Hilda  was  touched.  She  would  not  have  let  him  go  like 
this;  but,  before  she  could  do  more  than  raise  her  head  to 
speak,  the  folding-doors  opened  and  Doris  came  in. 

Gussie  drew  a  long  breath,  struck  with  horror  at  the 
change  in  her.  The  fair  goddess-beauty  was  gone,  the 
placid  eyes  were  dull  and  troubled;  new  and  sudden  fur¬ 
rows  in  the  smooth  face  made  it  look  years  older.  She 
held  out  her  hand  to  the  young  man  with  a  smile  strangely 
different  from  the  old  serene  one,  but  her  voice  was  kinder 
than  ever. 


“  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Gussie,  believe  me.  Hilda  has 
been  rather  hard  upon  you;  but  you  will  forgive  her,  for 
you  know  what  generous  feeling  prompted  her  severity. 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


127 


Stay  in  Paris  until  to-morrow  morning,  and  you  shall  take 
us  both  back  to  England/* 

Gussie  bowed  over  the  hand  she  still  held  as  if  he  had 
been  receiving  the  commands  of  an  empress.  Whether  it 
was  owing  to  Hilda*s  presence  or  not,  her  husband  s  deser¬ 
tion  had  taken  Doris  further  away  from  him  than  ever. 

6 'Then!  may  come  again  in  the  morning?**  he  stam¬ 
mered  out  humbly. 

“  We  will  meet  you  at  the  station  to-morrow  morning  in 
time  to  catch  the  train  for  the  midday  boat.  Thank  you 
for  your  kindness,  Gussie.  Good-night.** 

“  Good-night,  Doris.** 

He  bowed  to  Hilda  with  a  last  resentful,  triumphant 
glance,  to  show  her  that  she  had  not  so  much  the  best  of 
the  situation  as  she  thought,  and  left  the  room. 

Then  Hilda  grew  soft  again,  and  came  and  threw  herself 
down  on  her  knees  beside  Doris,  whom  she  coaxed  into  an 
arm-chair. 

“  What  are  you  going  to  do,  dear?**  she  whispered. 

(C  I  am  going  to  my  grandmother  first,**  answered  Doris. 

“  And  then?** 

“  I  don*t  know  yet.  I  must  think  and  know  more  than 
I  do  now.  ** 

She  was  not  quite  so  sweet  as  she  had  been  before;  her 
face  was  more  drawn,  and  her  manner  was  altogether 
rather  more  determined;  that  was  all  the  outward  change 
Gussie*s  blunt  tidings  had  made  in  her.  She  refused  to 
speak  again  of  her  husband;  and,  when  they  started  for 
England  the  next  morning,  Hilda  did  not  in  the  least  know 
what  feeling  toward  him  was.  uppermost  in  the  soul  of  the 
deserted  wife.  Gussie  telegraphed  to  Mrs.  Edgcombe  on 
the  way,  and  the  old  lady  met  them  at  Victoria  with  care 
on  her  kind  face  which  told  them  she  was  prepared  for  the 
tidings  they  brought.  She  was  very  cold  to  Gussie,  very 
warm  and  gracious  to  Hilda,  whom  she  daringly  congratu¬ 
lated  on  Charlie  Papillon’s  engagement. 

“  He  was  not  good  enough  for  you,  my  dear,**  she  said 
sharply.  “  And,  when  we  see  how  a  man  turns  out  even 
when  we  thought  he  was  good  enough  for  the  woman  he 
married,  we  may  thank  Heaven  for  an  escape  from  a  man 
who  didn*t  reach  even  that  standard.** 

This  discourse,  delivered  partly  for  the  benefit  of  Gussie, 
who  of  course  was  far  beneath  the  lowest  standing  Mrs. 


c28 


DORIS’S  FORTUNE. 


Edgcombe  could  conceive,  tickled  Hilda  into  an  irreverent 
mood;  and,  after  kissing  Doris  and  seeing  her  packed 
safely  into  her  grandmother’s  brougham,  she  turned  to  the 
crest-fallen  young  fellow  with  a  sardonic  laugh. 

“  Do  you  think  you  are  too  far  outside  the  pale  of  re¬ 
spectability  to  get  me  a  hansom?  It  will  cost  me  twopence 
if  I  have  to  send  a  porter.” 

W  hen  he  had  got  one  for  her  and  helped  her  in,  he  said 
meekly,  feeling  badly  the  need  of  opening  his  heart  about 
a  friend  he  cared  for  as  much  as  he  did  about  Doris — 

“  I  suppose  you  wouldn’t  let  me  see  you  home?” 

“  Yes,  I  would,”  said  she  promptly. 

6 ‘  It  has  been  a  most  unfortunate  journey  for  you,”  he 
said,  as  they  drove  out  of  the  station. 

“  Yes, ’’sighed  Hilda;  then  she  added  frankly,  “  But  not 
half  so  unfortunate  as  not  going  at  all  would  have  been.” 

“  What — when  poor  Doris  was  so  miserable?” 

She  would  have  been  more  miserable  without  me,  and 
I  should  not  have  seen  Paris.” 

“  You  didn’t  see  much  of  it,”  suggested  Gussie,  after  a 
pause,  during  which  he  debated  whether  he  should  be 
shocked,  and  decided  not. 

“  No;  but  enough  to  live  upon  through  at  least  three 
weeks  of  fog  and  mud  and  poverty  in  London.” 

“  Ugh!  Yes,  I  know,”  said  Gussie  sympathetically. 
“  It’s  bad  enough  for  a  man;  but,  by  Jove,  I  suppose  it  is 
even  worse  for  a  pretty  woman.  ” 

“  Pretty!”  ejaculated  Hilda  scornfully.  “  It  takes  time 
and  money  and  a  good  looking-glass  to  be  pretty,  and  I 
have  none  of  those  things.  Why,  I’m  older  than  my  own 
mother  already,  because  she  laid  in  a  good  stock  of  enjoy¬ 
ment  when  she  was  young,  and  I  have  only  been  able  to 
glean  a  few  ears,  as  it  were,  of  happiness.  How  does  it 
feel  to  be  rich  after  you  have  been  poor?” 

“  Oh,  jolly!”  said  Gussie,  with  feeling.  “  And  you  feel 
so  much  better  too.  Everybody  is  always  assuring  me  now 
that  I’m  a  credit  to  my  species,  instead  of  a  poor  devil  on 
sufferance  wherever  he  goes.  ” 

“  But  rich  people  are  better  than  poor  people,”  said 
Hilda  earnestly.  “  If  you  give  when  you’re  rich,  you  are 
generous  and  open-handed;  if  you  give  when  you’re  poor, 
you  are  an  improvident  rascal.  And  look  how  sunny-tem- 
perea  and  sweet  you  can  be  when  you  can  get  everything 


DORIS’S  FORTUtfE. 


129 


you  want!  Most  of  the  virtues  are  out  of  reach  of  us  pooi 
people.  ” 

44  Most  of  the  pleasures  are,  anyhow,”  assented  Gussie. 
4 4  Look  here — you  bullied  me  last  night  in  a  way  that,  when 
I  was  poor  and  therefore  wicked,  would  have  made  my 
blood  boil;  even  now  that  I  am  rich  and  virtuous,  it  made 
me  rather  wild  at  the  time.  But,  if  you  like  to  forget  all 
about  that,  and  come  and  talk  about  the  best  way  of  being 
good  to  Doris  when  we  are  both  calm  and  less  tired,  Iil 
come  and  take  you  to  a  concert  to-morrow  afternoon.  ” 

44  I  hate  concerts!”  said  Hilda,  with  a  grimace. 

4  4  Well,  I’ll  take  you  to  Charbonnel  and  Walker’s.  ” 

Hilda’s  face  softened. 

44  What  time  will  you  come?”  asked  she. 

44  One,  two,  three,  four!  Don’t  make  it  too  late;  the 
afternoon  is  gone  now  before  you  know  where  you  are.” 

Hilda  did  not  want  to  name  too  early  an  hour,  but  would 
not  for  the  world  put  off  the  pleasure  for  longer  than  de¬ 
cency  demanded. 

44  Say  half  past  two,”  said  she. 

So  the  appointment  was  made;  and,  Hilda’s  lodgings 
being  soon  reached,  they  parted  good  friends,  without  hav¬ 
ing  had  time  to  disagree  upon  any  subject.  Hilda  went 
in-doors  wondering  why  Doris  did  not  marry  him,  instead 
of  David;  and  Gussie  went  away  asking  himself  why  on 
earth  Charlie  Papillon  did  not  stick  to  his  colors  and  risk 
a  struggle,  rather  than  lose  such  a  pretty  amusing  little 
wife. 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


Doris  listened  to  her  grandmother’s  lamentations  over 
lien’s  perfidy  until  the  carriage  stopped,  when  she  asked 
very  quietly — 

44  Where  have — where  has  he  gone,  grandmamma?” 

44  To  Brighton,  my  dear.  They  have  gone  en  famille,  it 
appears;  the  girls  have  been  taken  too.” 

44  The  girls — Nellie  and  Ethel!”  cried  Doris,  with  relief. 
44  In  that  case — ” 

44  Don’t  be  alarmed,  my  dear;  the  case  is  quite  strong 
enough  for  you  to  get  your  separation.  You  have  only  to 
wait  a  few  months,  and  you  can  prove  that  he  has  deserted 
you,  which  is  all  you  want.  For  I  am  sure  you  do  not  wish 
to  appear  in  the  Divorce  Court.” 

44  No,  granny  dear,  I  don’t  want  to  appear  in  any  court 


130 


Boris's  fortune. 


at  all.  I  want  to  wait  for  him — for  him  to  come  back  to 
me/?  she  ended  in  a  whisper. 

“  My  dear  child,  you  don't  understand  the  case  yet/ 'said 
Mrs.  Edgcombe,  with  autocratic  asperity.  As  she  had 
made  this  marriage,  so  she  now  held  herself  qualified,  upon 
its  proving  a  failure,  to  break  it.  “  David  Glyn  has  mis¬ 
used  your  money  to  the  extent  of  crippling  your  income 
considerably;  Mr.  Hamlin,  your  remaining  trustee  under 
your  father's  will,  says  he  has,  as  far  as  he  can  make  out, 
lost  every  penny  it  was  in  his  power  to  risk.  To  trust  your¬ 
self  any  longer  in  the  power  of  a  man  who  has  proved  to  be 
little  better  than  a  common  swindler  would  be  madness.  I 
can  not  allow  it. " 

Doris  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  looking  at  the  fire. 
Then  she  said,  in  such  a  low  voice  that  it  was  almost  a  whis¬ 
per — 

46  Granny,  David  4ias  behaved  very  badly,  I  know.  But 
it  wasn't  his  fault  so  much  as  hers.  And  I — I  think  he 
had  something  to  complain  of  in  me.  Will  you  try  to  hush 
it  up,  and  wait  a  little?  If  he  does  not  come  back,  why, 
then  you  must  do  as  you  please,  and  I  will  do  as  you  please; 
but  I  would  rather  take  him  back — if  he  would  come — 
now.  Granny,  you  must  humor  me,  or  I — I  shall  break 
my  heart!" 

Mrs.  Edgcombe  held  out  her  arms,  and  Doris  sobbed  for 
some  minutes  softly  with  her  head  in  the  old  lady's  lap. 
Then  she  rose  and  dried  her  tears,  and,  without  another 
word,  but  with  one  long  look  exchanged  by  sorrowful  eyes, 
the  compact  was  sealed  between  them. 

For  a  fortnight  no  news  was  heard  of  David.  Mr.  Hod- 
son,  to  escape  his  creditors,  had  gone  abroad.  It  was  now 
clearly  proved  that  his  foolish  client  had  swamped  in  specu¬ 
lation,  under  his  direction,  some  thirty-three  thousand 
pounds.  Doris  cared  little  about  the  loss  of  her  money, 
and  would  not  allow  that,  in  risking  it,  David  had  been 
worse  than  foolish;  she  bore  her  mournful  semi- widowhood 
with  quiet  dignity,  and  refused  to  leave  town,  as  her  grand¬ 
mother  wished  her  to  do,  hoping  against  hope  each  day  for 
her  husband's  return.  She  persisted,  with  this  object  in 
view,  in  remaining  in  her  own  house,  instead  of  staying  at 
Mrs.  Edgcombe' s,  as  the  latter  wished.  He  would  come 
home  some  evening  quite  quietly,  she  thought,  and,  walk¬ 
ing  into  the  drawing-room  with  the  cold  look  she  knew  so 


doris’s  fortune. 


131 


well,  would  express  great  surprise  that  she  had  felt  any 
uneasiness  on  his  account.  Oh*  how  she  would  welcome 
the  coldest  look  now! 

For  Doris  felt  within  her  a  power  of  dealing  with  his 
chilling  moods  which  she  had  never  felt  before.  Since  he 
had  warmth  of  feeling  for  another  woman,  she  argued,  why 
should  he  not  in  time  have  some  for  her  too,  now  that, 
with  amazing  perversity,  there  had  grown  up  in  her,  since 
the  discovery  of  his  delinquencies,  a  tenderness  which  she 
had  never  felt  for  the  immaculate  marble  self  he  had  always 
shown  himself  to  be  when  with  her? 

The  letter  she  had  written  to  him  in  Paris  she  fomnd  un¬ 
opened  in  the  library,  where  it  had  been  put  by  the  house¬ 
maid,  ignorant  of  his  address  and  already  suspicious  of  the 
truth.  Every  evening,  after  sitting,  sometimes  alone, 
sometimes  with  her  grandmother,  hour  after  hour,  listen¬ 
ing,  writing,  Doris  would,  as  the  clock  struck  eleven,  creep 
into  the  library  to  make  sure  that  David  had  not  come  in 
so  quietly  with  his  latch-key  that  she  had  not  heard  him; 
but  night  after  night  she  only  saw,  by  the  light  of  her  can¬ 
dle,  her  own  letter  waiting  for  him,  growing  darker  and 
dustier  each  night,  undisturbed  on  the  mantel-piece. 

And  at  the  end  of  three  weeks  Doris  felt  that  she  could 
wait  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

One  morning,  after  a  night  spent  in  struggles  between 
her  pride,  her  feminine  timidity,  and  the  yearning  for  a  rec¬ 
onciliation  with  her  husband  which  grew  stronger  every 
day,  Doris  came  down -stairs  with  a  high  color  burning  in 
her  cheeks  and  her  eyes  flashing  with  the  excitement  of  a 
bold  resolution.  After  breakfast,  she  wrote  a  note  to  her 
grandmother,  went  upstairs  again,  summoned  her  maid, 
and  superintended  the  packing  of  a  small  portmanteau. 

Then  she  got  a  time-table,  found  an  early  train  to  Brigh¬ 
ton,  and  ordered  the  brougham  for  half  past  twelve.  She 
spent  the  time  before  starting  in  fluttering  about  from  book 
to  newspaper,  from  window  to  clock,  like  a  restless  child, 
afraid  lest  Mrs.  Edgcombe  should  call,  as  she  sometimes 
did  in  the  morning,  and  try  to  hinder  her  in  her  great  pur¬ 
pose.  David  would  not  come  back  to  her  of  his  own  accord ; 
she  had  resolved  to  humble  herself  and  try  to  bring  him 


132 


BORIS'S  FORTUNE. 


back;  it  might  be  shame  that  kept  him  from  her.  Per¬ 
haps  the  yearning  eagerness  she  felt  to  see  him  again  might 
hare  more  power  over  him  than  her  quiet  submission  had 
had. 

Always  the  same  old  arguments,  the  same  trembling 
hopes  and  chilling  fears  that  had  kept  her  on  the  rack  for 
the  last  three  weeks!  What  reason  had  she  for  thinking  that 
the  charms  which  had  had  no  attraction  for  him  a  month 
ago  would  be  irresistible  to  him  now  that  he  was  more  com¬ 
pletely  than  ever  under  the  sway  of  an  entirely  different 
type  of  woman?  Poor  Doris!  She  was  too  innocent  to 
understand  these  things;  and  so  she  traveled  down  to 
Brighton,  with  a  feverish  longing  to  be  at  the  end  of  a 
iourney  which  must,  she  felt  confident  in  her  excitement, 
bring  her  to  the  crown  of  her  passionate  hopes. 

With  the  arrival  in  Brighton  however,  and  the  solitary 
installment  of  herself  and  the  lymphatic  small-minded 
Whitaker  at  the  Queen's  Hotel,  came  a  sense  of  isolation 
and  discouragement.  After  a  short  and  lonely  luncheon, 
she  watched  from  the  window  the  gray  sea  and  the  pass¬ 
ers-by,  not  daring  to  go  out,  being  suddenly  oppressed  by 
a  vivid  fear  of  meeting  the  very  person  she  had  come  to  see. 

If  he  should  be  with  that  woman!  Now  that  she  was  in 
the  vicinity  of  her  rival,  Doris's  feeling  toward  her  had 
suddenly  become  more  bitter.  She  pictured  to  herself  the 
triumuh  with  which  Mrs.  Hodson  would  look  at  her,  if  she 
should  come  suddenly  face  to  face  with  the  young  wife 
whom  she  had  robbed  of  her  husband.  And  Doris  wished, 
with  a  sharp  revulsion  of  feeling,  that  she  had  not  come. 

Having  come  however,  she  must  make  the  best  of  the 
situation;  and,  having  schooled  herself  into  such  outward 
calmness  as  would  allow  her  to  pass  for  a  reasonably  con¬ 
tented  person,  she  left  the  hotel  alone,  just  as  the  evening 
mist  was  beginning  to  spread  over  the  sea,  for  a  walk  along 
the  cliff.  When  she  was  opposite  to  the  old  chain  pier,  she 
took  a  fancy  into  her  head  to  go  on  it;  she  would  have  it 
almost  to  herself,  she  knew,  and  could  think  better.  As  if, 
poor  creature,  she  wanted  to  think,  or  as  if  the  only 
thought  she  was  capable  of —  “Will  he  come  back  to 
me?" — would  answer  itself  happily  by  dint  of  frequent  re¬ 
petition! 

She  went  down  the  steep  stone  steps,  past  the  antiquated 
bazaar  where  school-girls  on  Saturdays  are  tempted  to  ruif* 


I 


dorxs’s  fortune. 


138 


ous  extravagance  over  wax-flowers  and  photographic  al¬ 
bums,  and  the  mad  excitement  of  a  wheel  of  fortune.  The 
pier  was  almost  deserted,  as  she  expected;  at  the  end,  on 
one  of  the  sheltered  seats,  two  girls  were  seated,  talking. 
Doris  passed  quite  close  to  them,  and  they  recognized  her  at 
the  same  moment  that  she,  glancing  in  the  direction  of  the 
voices,  knew  them  as  Mrs.  Hodson’s  two  daughters,  Nellie 
and  Ethel.  The  elder  started  up,  crying,  “  Mrs.  Glyn!” 
while  the  younger  whispered  “  Sh!”  and  tried  to  draw  her 
more  impulsive  sister  back. 

Doris  stopped,  and  both  girls  made  a  step  timidly 
toward  her. 

“  Nellie — Ethel!  How  do  you  do?”  said  she,  in  a  rather 
quavering  voice. 

“  Quite  well,  thank  you,”  said  Nellie;  and  there  was  a 
pause. 

“  I’ve  only  come  down  to-day,”  said  Doris  at  last. 
u  Have  you  been  here  long?” 

“  Since  the  failure — papa’s  failure,  ”  said  Nellie,  in  a 
constrained  tone,  with  a  sense  that  Ethel’s  eyes  were  upon 
her  and  that  she  must  be  circumspect. 

“  Where  are  you  staying?” 

“  On  the  .Parade;”  and  they  told  her  the  number.  It 
was  not  far  from  the  pier. 

“  What  are  you  going  to  do,  dears?  It  will  bring  a 
terrible  change  for  you,  I  am  afraid,  this  unhappy  business.  ” 

Nellie  looked  at  her  curiously;  but  face  and  voice  were 
both  so  kind,  so  sympathetic,  that  from  curiosity  concern¬ 
ing  the  lady’s  state  of  mind  she  fell  into  anxiety  about  her 
own. 

“  Yes,  it  has  brought  a  change,  of  course,  and  I  don’t 
know  what  will  become  of  us.  Mamma  never  did  care 
much  about  us.  Just  now  we  are  a  convenience;  but — ” 

She  was  stopped  by  a  sharp  elbow — Ethel’s.  The  next 
moment,  however,  she  burst  out  more  vehemently: 

“  What  is  the  use  of  hiding  what  everybody  knows — - 
what  Mrs.  Glyn  knows  too?  It  isn’t  as  if  it  was  only  we,  or 
only  she;  it  is  all  of  us.  Mrs.  Glyn,  we  are  bound  to  stay 
with  mamma;  but  you  are  not  bound  to  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  a  husband  like  yours;  and,  if  I  were  you, 
I  would  leave  him  to  come  to  his  senses  by  himself.  At 
first  mamma  found  it  very  amusing  to  have  any  one  who 
was  not  papa  about  her  every  day,  and  Mr.  Glyn,  who  ha« 


134 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


rooms  two  streets  off,  might  call  as  often  as  he  liked;  it 
was  all  perfectly  proper,  because  we  were  there.  But  Undo 
Eugene,  her  eldest  brother,  has  written  to  her — she  had 
the  letter  this  morning — telling  her,  if  she  doesn’t  go  to 
him  and  take  us  with  him,  he  shall  come  and  fetch  us  him¬ 
self.  It  made  her  very  cross,  and  she  snapped  at  Mr.  Glyn 
to-day  dreadfully;  but  I  think  she  will  end  by  taking  us.” 

“Pm  sure  she  will,”  said  the  wide-mouthed,  preter- 
naturally  solemn  Ethel,  with  an  old  trenchant  manner 
which  told  a  strange  tale  of  the  influences  among  which 
the  girls  had  been  brought  up. 

One  thing  more  Doris  wished  to  learn;  but  she  did  not 
know  how  to  frame  the  question.  At  last  she  said  hesitat¬ 
ingly— 

“  At  least,  it  is  not  so  bad  for  you  as  if  you  had  had  no 
relatives  to  help  you,  and  nothing  to — to  fall  back  upon.” 

Ethel  gave  forth  a  short  ejaculation  which  was  too  short, 
too  bitter,  for  a  laugh;  and  Nellie  said: 

“  You  think,  I  see,  Mrs.  Glyn,  that,  because  we  have 
gone  to  apartments  on  the  Parade,  just  as  we  used  to  do, 
we  have  money  to  pay  for  them  with;  but  we  haven’t. 
You  don’t  understand  mamma.  She  has  been  used  to  do 
everything  with  as  much  thought  of  money  as  a  queen; 
and,  now  that  she  finds  that  there  is  nobody  to  write  out 
checks,  or  to  buy  her  anything  she  fancies,  she  is  a  great 
deal  more  like  a  helpless  child  than  we  are.” 

Doris  was  appalled,  as  much  by  the  fact  that  so  young  a 
girl  should  he  able  to  make  such  a  coldly  shrewd  valuation 
of  her  mother’s  character  as  by  the  unhappy  position  in 
which  she  saw  her  own  husband  to  be  placed. 

Ethel,  who  underneath  her  shrewdness  had  plenty  of 
warmth  of  feeling  for  those  who  wanted  it,  put  her  arm 
round  the  pale  lady’s  neck,  and,  as  her  appealing  look  was 
met  by  a  smile,  kissed  the  handsome  face  very  gently. 

“  I  expect  you  care  more  for  Mr.  Glyn  than  mamma 
does  for  papa,”  she  said,  in  a  low  voice;  “  and,  if  so,  I 
think  it  will  all  come  right  for  you.  He  is  so  affectionate 
that,  when  he  finds  out  how  cold  mamma  is,  he  will  be 
very  glad  to — to  be  good  again.  ” 

So  affectionate!  Doris’s  heart  leaped  up  with  a  pang  of 
mingled  anger  and  astonishment  and  remorse.  Had  she 
then  at  the  outset  coldly  misunderstood  him,  and  mistaken 
the  hard  shell  of  his  habitual  reserve  for  the  kernel  it  con- 


DOKIS  S  EORTUOTC.  135 

cealed?  If  this  were  so,  there  was  hope  yet,  and  she  would 
risk  any  humiliation  in  atonement  for  her  mistake. 

She  did  not  know  what  she  said  to  the  girls  after  that; 
she  spoke  incoherently  about  trifling  things,  longing  to  be 
away,  yet  afraid  to  meet  her  husband  and  Mrs.  Hodson, 
who  were  both,  Nellie  said,  somewhere  on  the  pier.  She 
made  an  appointment  to  meet  the  two  sisters  again  on  the 
following  day,  and,  glancing  before  and  behind  her  as  she 
went,  hurried  off  the  pier  without  meeting  any  one,  got 
into  a  cab,  and  drove  back  to  her  hotel.  Here  she  wrote  a 
letter  to  her  trustee,  a  very  old  friend  both  of  her  late  fa¬ 
ther  and  of  her  grandmother,  and  begged  him,  he  being  by 
this  time,  as  she  knew,  aware  of  the  deadlock  to  which 
her  relations  with  her  husband  had  come,  to  send  David 
money  to  the  address  she  gave.  She  headed  her  letter  with 
the  number  and  name  of  the  street  the  girls  had  given  her 
as  the  place  where  he  was  staying,  and,  as  the  post-mark 
would  be  “  Brighton,”  she  knew  that  the  money  would  be 
sent  under  the  impression  that  she  and  her  husband  had 
become  reconciled.  In  this  way,  at  least,  David  would  be 
rescued  from  the  miserable  pennilessness  into  which  her 
trustee’s  angry  remonstrances  had  thrust  him. 

The  letter  written  and  dispatched,  Doris  yielded  most 
unwisely  to  the  morbid  attraction  the  old  chain  pier  now 
had  for  her,  and  went  back  to  it  again — too  soon.  For,  as 
she  drew  near  to  the  end,  in  passing  one  of  the  little  towers, 
where  dreary  collections  of  untempting  pebble  ornaments 
offer  their  hard  attractions  to  the  susceptible  excursionist, 
she  heard  the  tones  of  a  soft  voice  which  now  had  unspeak¬ 
able  terrors  for  her.  She  stopped,  and  then  passed  to  the 
left  side  of  the  little  tower,  from  which  point  she  could  just 
see  a  portion  of  a  mantle  heavily  trimmed  with  sable  tails 
which  had  become  historical  for  its  costliness  among  Mrs. 
Hodson’s  acquaintances. 

Doris’s  first  impulse  was  to  meet  them,  to  confound 
them;  but,  before  she  could  do  so,  she  heard  some  words 
from  her  husband’s  lips  which  gave  her  a  shock  so  over¬ 
whelming  that  all  thought  of  maintaining  an  attitude  of 
imposing  dignity  left  her,  and,  like  a  beaten  animal,  she 
crept  away  out  of  the  sound  of  the  soft  voice  that  was 
lacerating  her  heart.  She  had  heard  her  husband,  the 
calm,  passionless  David,  whispering,  with  excitement  and 
vehemence  of  which  she  had  thought  him  incapable,  wordsi 


136 


doris’s  fortune.  * 


which  could  be  nothing  but  a  mad  entreaty  to  this  woman, 
another  man’s  wife,  to  give  up  her  children,  her  duty,  to 
go  away  with  him.  She  fled  straight  back  to  the  hotel,  and 
met  her  maid  with  a  weird  white  face  that  alarmed  that 
simple-minded  person. 

“  You  shouldn’t  go  out  alone,  ma’am,  so  late  as  this,” 
said  she  reproachfully,  as  she  took  off  Doris’s  mantle,  and 
felt  that  her  mistress  was  shaking  from  head  to  foot. 
“  There’s  always  rough  characters  about  these  sea-side 
places,”  she  added  consolingly,  putting  the  lady’s  pallor 
down  to  the  sight  of  a  drunken  sailor,  without  much  con¬ 
cern  about  probability. 

“  Oh,  I’m  all  right  now,  Whitaker!”  said  Doris  reassur¬ 
ingly.  “  You  can  ring  for  dinner;  I  think  I  am  hungry.” 

She  dined  with  a  very  good  appetite,  much  to  her  own 
surprise,  and  was  rather  shocked  to  find  that,  when  the 
table  was  cleared,  and  she  took  up  a  magazine  with  the 
idea  of  hiding  her  mental  disturbance  from  the  waiter,  in 
whom  she  felt  that  something  abnormal  in  her  appearance 
might  excite  vulgar  curiosity,  she  became  seriously  inter¬ 
ested  in  an  article  upon  the  Decay  of  Art  in  Italy.  She 
read  it  carefully  from  beginning  to  end,  believing  that  by 
so  doing  she  was  staving  off  distressing  thoughts;  but, 
when  she  had  finished  it,  and  laid  the  book  down  with  a 
sigh  preparatory  to  the  rush  of  agonized  feelings  which 
ought  to  have  come,  she  was  again  astonished  and  at  heart 
a  little  humiliated  to  discover  that  the  rush  was  once  and 
for  all  over.  And  she  slept  well  that  night,  and  woke  to  a 
sad  but  peaceful  morning. 

She  knew  the  worst — in  fact,  understood  exactly  where 
she  was,  and  could  “  take  her  bearings.”  She  felt  not  one 
scrap  the  less  anxious  for  a  reconciliation  with  her  husband; 
but  she  began  to  understand  better  what  sort  of  thing  that 
reconciliation  would  be.  It  would  not  be  the  meekly  ador¬ 
ing  welcome  accorded  to  a  king  who  has  abdicated  his 
throne  rather  ignominiously  under  the  pressure  of  circum¬ 
stances  and  graciously  returned  when  things  have  been 
made  comfortable  for  him  again;  but  it  would  be  rather 
the  indulgent  reception  of  a  misunderstood  but  too  well- 
treated  prodigal  son.  And,  after  considering  well  the  cir¬ 
cumstances  of  the  position,  and  dimly  realizing  the  fact 
that  she  was  the  stronger  of  the  two,  and  would,  therefore, 


Doris’s  fortuxb. 


137 


hare  to  make  the  first  and  boldest  step  toward  “  making  it 
up  ”  without  any  help  from  David,  Doris  made  up  her 
mind  to  remain  for  the  present  in  Brighton  and  watch  the 
course  of  events,  with  more  than  a  faint  hope  that  she 
might  take  back  her  husband  in  triumph  to  town. 

As  Doris  had  reason  to  suspect,  her  rivaBs  temperament 
was  a  great  source  of  strength  to  her  own  hopes.  Mrs. 
Hodson,  a  woman  with  infinite  fascinating  caprices,  but 
absolutely  passionless,  was  bored  and  somewhat  disgusted 
by  finding  that  the  slave,  on  whose  docility  and  ample  sup¬ 
ply  of  ready  money  she  had  counted  to  make  the  few 
weeks  of  her  husbands  temporary  desertion  with  all  pro¬ 
priety  tolerable,  had  the  audacity  and  coarseness  to  wish  to 
become  her  loyer.  Too  spoiled  and  willful  to  check  herself 
in  the  indulgence  of  any  whim,  however  perilous  to  her 
own  reputation,  or  to  the  interests  of  her  daughters,  Mrs. 
Hodson  mistook  her  marble  coldness  for  the  most  exalted 
and  irreproachable  virtue;  and  in  the  bourgeois  Bohemian- 
ism  of  this  little  trip  to  Brighton,  with  her  daughters  to 
play  propriety,  and  David  Glyn  as  the  indispensable  slave 
to  whose  attentions  she  had  become  accustomed,  she  saw 
nothing  which  could  reasonably  give  rise  to  the  faintest 
breath  of  scandal. 

And  then,  with  the  indelicacy  of  his  sex,  David  Glyn  had 
sought,  by  an  outburst  of  wild  aud  quite  unexpected  pas¬ 
sion,  to  bring  the  carefully  excluded  taint  of  impropriety 
over  her  already  debt-disturbed  paradise,  reminding  her 
ungenerously  that  he  had  ruined  all  his  hopes  of  happiness 
for  her,  deserted  his  young  wife,  and  that  now  nothing  re¬ 
mained  to  him  but  her  love.  Her  husband — the  husband 
she  hated — had  left  her;  she  had  already  compromised  her¬ 
self  by  bringing — allowing  him — David — to  come  down 
here  and  visit  her.  Her  brother  Eugene  was  going  to  take 
the  girls  under  his  own  care.  David  was  sure  he  could  get 
a  consulship  abroad — he  had  interest;  and  then — 

He  was  stopped,  just  as  he  was  growing  incoherent  in  his 
outburst,  by  Mrs.  Hodson,  who  had  prudently  waited  to 
hear  the  whole  of  the  programme  before  cutting  in  to  crush 
him.  They  were  both  sitting  on  the  seat  behind  the  little 
curiosity-shop  on  the  pier,  with  their  faces  to  the  misty  sea; 
Doris  had  retreated  long  before  this,  without  their  having 
heard  her.  Mrs.  Hodson  turned  to  interrupt  David  with  a 
face  of  stone.  He  had  not  known  how  steely  those  brilliant 


138 


DORIS^  FORTUNE. 


f^ray  eyes  could  look,  how  like  a  hasp  that  small  thin* 
ipped  mouth  could  close. 

“  Compromised  myself !”  she  echoed  slowly,  fixing  at 
once  on  those  words  in  his  speech  which  particularly  and 
most  intimately  affected  herself,  casting  as  they  did  an  un¬ 
pardonable  slur  upon  her  position  of  Cassar^s  wife.  “  Com¬ 
promised  myself!  Do  you  understand  what  you  are  saying, 
Mr.  Glyn?” 

David  made  no  answer — chilled  in  all  the  heat  of  the 
passionate  despair  which  had  at  last  burst  out  after  smol¬ 
dering  in  his  heart  for  the  last  two  or  three  days,  since  Mrs. 
Hodson,  by  alternating  her  caprices  of  fascinating  liveliness 
with  caprices  of  unutterable,  speechless  melancholy,  had 
overthrown  what  little  reasoning  power  his  infatuation  had 
left  him. 

“As  for  your  wife,”  continued  she  pitilessly,  after  a 
pause,  “  I  am  certainly  innocent  of  having  done  anything 
to  lead  you  to  neglect  her.  She  always  seemed  to  me  a 
most  charming  person — I  have  always  told  you  so.  When 
you  came  to  me  complaining  that  she  was  cold  and  unsym¬ 
pathetic,  I  comforted  you;  I  did  no  more.  Yet  now  you 
turn  round  and  accuse  me  of  sowing  dissension  between 
you  and  her.  How  just!  How  like  a  man!” 

Mrs.  Hodson  said  this  with  as  much  spiteful  emphasis  as 
if  her  whole  life  had  been  spent  in  a  losing  struggle  with 
the  viler  sex,  instead  of  the  placid  receiving  of  tribute  from 
them. 

David  tried  to  stammer  out  something  like  a  proud  apol¬ 
ogy;  but  he  was  wounded,  shattered;  there  was  a  dull  hum¬ 
ming  sound  in  his  ears,  through  which  the  tones  of  his  own 
voice  seemed  strange  and  far-off  to  him.  He  rose  abruptly, 
and  led  Mrs.  Hodson,  without  asking  if  she  wished  to  go, 
back  to  her  daughters.  Weak  and  culpable  as  his  conduct 
had  been,  his  suffering  that  evening,  as  he  went  back  to 
his  lodgings  alone  and  without  comfort,  was  the  beginning 
of  an  ample  punishment. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

On*  the  afternoon  following  the  day  of  her  talk  with 
Nellie  and  Ethel  Hodson  on  the  old  chain  pier,  Doris,  who 
lived  in  the  constant  expectation,  half  fear,  half  hope,  of 
some  chance  meeting  with  her  husband,  went  again  to  the 


DORIS'S  FORTUM.  139 

seat  where  she  had  met  the  girls,  to  keep  the  appointment 
she  had  made  with  them.  But  they  were  not  there;  and, 
although  Doris  waited  more  than  an  hour  in  the  hope  of 
their  appearing,  she  was  obliged  at  last  to  return  to  her 
hotel  without  having  seen  them.  Soon  afterward,  how¬ 
ever,  she  received  a  note,  sent  by  hand,  from  Nellie, 
apologizing  for  their  non-appearance.  Their  uncle,  the 
autocratic  Uncle  Eugene,  who  was  not  accustomed  to  inter¬ 
fere  with  his  relatives*  affairs,  but  who,  when  he  did  so, 
had  the  reputation  of  acting  to  some  purpose,  had  suddenly 
swooped  down  upon  his  sister  and  nieces  that  morning  at 
breakfast-time,  and  made  all  independent  action  impossi¬ 
ble. 

Doris  read  these  tidings  with  much  excitement;  on  this 
decisive  step  of  “  Uncle  Eugene's  "  depended  more  than 
the  fortunes  of  those  three  women-creatures  in  whom  he 
was  interested.  She  could  do  nothing;  she  dared  not  try 
to  see  David  yet;  she  must  wait. 

The  next  morning  came  another  note  from  Nellie,  sent 
by  post  from  Guildford,  where  their  uncle  lived;  he  had 
packed  them  all  up,  so  to  speak,  and  carried  them  off  to 
his  castle,  without  much  resistance,  so  Nellie  intimated,  on 
her  mother's  part,  and  to  the  great  delight  of  the  girls. 
There  was  no  allusion  to  David  in  the  body  of  the  letter; 
but  there  was  the  following  short 

“  P.S.— We  have  seen  nobody  but  my  uncle  since  yester¬ 
day  evening,  when  we  went  home  from  the  chain  pier  after 
meeting  you." 

Where,  then,  was  David?  Dared  she  go  to  his  lodging 
and  learn  whether  he  was  still  there?  Doris  had  not  the 
courage  to  take  this  step  until  late  in  the  afternoon,  when 
she  received  a  note  from  her  trustee  to  say  that  the  remit¬ 
tance  sent  to  Mr.  David  Glyn  at  the  address  given  had  been 
returned  by  him. 

Doris's  heart  seemed  to  leap  up,  and  then  to  sink  to 
deeper  despair  than  she  had  yet  felt.  For,  after  gladness  to 
learn  that  David  was  not  mean  enough  to  accept  the  money 
which  her  yearning  impulse  to  hold  some  communication 
with  him  had  prompted  her  to  have  sent,  came  the  misera¬ 
ble  fear  that  his  refusal  implied  his  determination  that  the 
separation  between  them  should  be  final. 

She  could  contain  herself  no  longer.  She  had  scarcely 
read  the  short,  poto  through,  when  she  almost  ran  to  hef 


140 


DORIS'S  FORTUNE. 


bedroom  to  prepare  for  the  walk  to  her  husband’s  lodging; 
but,  when  she  got  there,  she  managed  by  an  effort  to  asic 
quite  calmly,  when  the  door  was  opened,  whether  Mr.  Glyn 
was  at  home. 

5 4  He  left  yesterday,  ma’am,”  said  the  servant. 

“  Thank  you,”  said  Doris  quietly.  Then,  on  the  point 
of  turning  away,  she  stopped  to  ask  in  a  tremulous  voice, 
iS  Did  he  leave  any  addressdor — for  letters?” 

“  No,  ma’am — at  least,  not  with  me.” 

Doris  could  not  stay  to  learn  whether  any  one  else  in  the 
house  was  better  informed;  she  walked  back,  ready  to  cry 
like  a  child.  She  even  formed  the  clear  intention  of  indulg¬ 
ing  in  a  flood  of  tears  as  a  relief  to  her  feelings,  if  not  a 
way  out  of  her  difficulties;  but  it  was  frustrated  by  the 
most  unwelcome  sight  of  two  visitors  waiting  for  her  in  the 
sitting-room.  They  sprung  up  like  clock-work  toys  on 
her  entrance,  and  surrounded  her,  shaking  her  hands 
vigorously,  and  talking  both  together  in  a  foolish  chatter¬ 
ing  manner  which  is  wrongly  supposed  to  be  peculiar  to  the 
weaker  sex.  They  proved,  on  inspection,  to  be  Gussie 
Melton  and  Charlie  rapillon,  the  latter  of  whom,  being 
great  in  matters  of  tact,  managed  to  stave  off  the  awk¬ 
wardness  of  the  surprise-meeting  by  his  ready  flow  of  wit. 
But  the  result  of  more  emotion  on  Doris’s  previous  excite¬ 
ment  was  not  to  be  staved  off;  with  one  hand  held  by  each 
of  the  young  men,  she  began  crying  helplessly.  Gussie, 
who  was  violently  emotional  himself,  had  sympathetic 
moisture  in  his  own  eyes  immediately.  But  Charlie,  whose 
heart-strings  were  tougher,  and  who  was  invaluable  as  a 
comforter,  as  he  could  always  be  kind  without  becoming 
so  much  overwhelmed  as  to  lose  his  airy  presence  of  mind, 
administered  philosophical  consolation  vague  enough  to  be 
applied  to  any  misfortune,  from  the  breakage  of  a  pane  of 
glass  to  the  death  of  a  parent.  The  end  of  this  was  that 
Doris  began  to  laugh  hysterically,  and  Charlie,  hailing  this 
new  symptom  as  triumphant  success  to  his  attempts,  led 
her  to  a  seat  and  threw  off  all  semblance  of  grief. 

44  There — now  you’re  all  right  again,  and  we  can  talk!” 
he  said  cheerfully,  coming  at  once  to  his  favorite  employ¬ 
ment. 

“What — what  brought  you  here?  Why  did  you  come 
down?”  asked  Doris  plaintively,  checking  her  sobs  and  try' 
mg  to  follow  his  lead  of  exuberant  liveliness. 


DOBIs's  POBTUHE. 


141 


“  Oh,  er— we — we — Mrs.  Edgcombe  sent  me  down  to 
ask  you  to  bring  her  some  Tidman's  sea-salt — I  believe  it's 
made  here!”  answered  Charlie,  in  a  tone  of  inflexible  con¬ 
viction. 

“  Oh!  And  what  did  you  come  for?”  said  she  to  Gussie, 
who,  being  a  long  way  behind  his  companion  in  readiness, 
was  still  standing  rather  sheepishly  where  the  others  had 
left  him. 

“  Oh,  I — I  came  to  look  after  Charlie!”  he  answered 

guiltily. 

“  Well,  you  will  both  dine  with  me  this  evening,  won't 
you?”  said  Doris,  rising,  and  crossing  the  room  to  the  door. 
“  And  you  must  contrive  to  amuse  yourselves  without  quar¬ 
reling  while  I  take  off  my  hat.” 

When  she  returned,  all  traces  of  tears  were  gone  from 
her  face;  and,  having  brought  with  her  to  Brighton  noth¬ 
ing  but  somber  black  gowns,  she  had  sent  Whitaker  for 
some  bright  flowers  to  relieve  her  funereal  appearance  in 
deference  to  Charlie's  taste;  and  he  showed  his  appreciation 
of  her  action  by  an  outburst  of  admiring  affection  as  she 
came  in. 

“  There— now  you  look  like  my  old,  beautiful  sweet¬ 
heart!”  said  he,  beaming  on  her  complacently  as  he  stroked 
his  mustache  with  vehemence,  to  work  off  his  feelings. 
“  And  now  you  shall  hear  Gussie's  news;  he  has  some  news 

for  you.” 

“  Oh,  after  dinner — it  will  do  after  dinner!”  objected 
Gussie  hastily  and  rather  bashfully. 

And,  as  the  waiters  came  in  at  that  moment  to  lay  the 
cloth,  Doris  had  to  stifle  whatever  curiosity  she  might  feel 
until  the  meal  was  over,  and  dessert  left  them  by  them¬ 
selves  again.  Then  Charlie  began  to  grow  mischievous  and 
Gussie  nervous,  until,  as  the  only  alternative  to  having  his 
news  told  for  him  with  embellishments  such  as  he  did  not 
care  to  hear,  the  latter  blurted  it  out  himself  without  much 
attempt  at  introduction. 

46  This  is  what  Papillon  is  driving  at,”  he  said,  with  a 
scornful  look  at  his  friend.  “  I — I  am  going  to  be  married 
to  Hilda  Warren.” 

It  was  a  surprise  certainly,  and,  alas  for  humanity,  rather 
a  painful  one  to  Doris!  She  had  never  entertained  any 
sentimental  feeling  for  Gussie;  but  at  this  time,  when  she 


DORIS’S  RORTUHE. 


142 

was  stranded  in  the  world,  very  badly  off  for  affection,  the 
belief  in  his  constant  and  chivalrous  devotion  had  a  certain 
soothing  quality  which  had  caused  her,  while  paying  more 
attention  to  her  other  visitor  than  to  him,  to  feel  an  un¬ 
acknowledged  consolation  in  his  appearance  at  her  time  of 
trial  much  stronger  than  any  afforded  by  Charlie’s  lively 
chatter.  So  that  the  sudden  discovery  of  the  rapidity  with 
which  passion  founded  on  nothing  stronger  than  sentiment 
can  change  its  object  was  a  shock  to  her.  She  congratu¬ 
lated  him  nevertheless  warmly — more  warmly  of  course, 
after  the  first  mcment’s  astonishment,  than  she  would  have 
done  if  the  announcement  had  not  hurt  her  somewhat.  < 
Hilda  was  a  dear  girl,  the  most  warm-hearted,  the  most 
honest  of  all  girls  she  had  ever  known.  Doris  said  this, 
and  meant  it  most  sincerely,  adding  that  Gussie  was  the 
luckiest  man  she  knew  to  have  secured  her;  but,  for  all 
that,  there  was  a  lurking  aggrieved  feeling  in  her  heart,  a 
wish  that  she  had  not  known  the  news  quite  so  soon,  that 
she  had  not  learned  it  quite  so  abruptly. 

It  seemed  to  her  strange  that  Charlie  Papillon,  whose 
flirtation  with  Hilda  had  been  known  to  be  as  serious  as 
Charlie  ever  allowed  his  flirtations  to  be,  should  not  only 
have  the  sang-froid  to  listen  to  Doris’s  congratulations 
with  warm  interest,  but  to  take  quite  a  gleeful  view  of  his 
lady-love’s  speedy  consolation  for  his  own  defection.  He 
wanted  to  know  when  they  would  be  married,  wrhere  they 
proposed  to  live,  and  a  hundred  other  things  not  usually 
decided  off-hand  in  the  first  week  of  an  engagement. 
Gussie  began  to  get  irritated  and  Doris  to  laugh  at  him.  - 

“  Have  you  then  already  settled  the  exact  number  of 
months  out  of  every  year  that  you  propose  to  spend  in 
town  and  the  color  of  the  furniture  of  every  room  in  the 
house?  You  have  been  so  busily  teasing  Gussie  that  you 
forget  you  are  open  to  just  the  same  fire  yourself.  I  haven’t 
seen  you  since  your  engagement,  Charlie,  to  congratulate 
you;  but  I  do  so  now  most  heartily.  ” 

Exactly  as  he  would  have  dropped  from  an  animated  and 
interesting  discussion  with  a  girl  about  Irving’s  acting  to  a 
dry  and  disagreeable  discourse  with  his  tailor  about  “  that 
little  account,”  Charlie  from  bright  and  excited  became 
uninterested  and  off-hand  in  manner. 

“  Thanks!”  said  he.  “  Oh,  yes,  she’s  a  very  nic3  girl! 
Have  you  ever  met  her?” 


DOBIS^S  FOBTTJNE.  143 

u  I  think  so — once,  at  Mrs.  Dryden's.  She  wore  pink, 
if  I  remember.” 

u  Oh,  yes,  and  a  horrible  fan  that  didn't  match!  Yes, 
that  was  the  fortunate  one." 

“  Well,  and  have  you  already  settled  every  detail  of  your 
future  existence  that  you  feel  called  upon  to  express  sur¬ 
prise  that  Gussie  and  Hilda  have  not  done  so?” 

“  Oh,  no!  Miss  Harrington  settles  everything;  she  likes 
settling.  She'll  settle  me,  I  expect — at  least,  I  only  mean, 
of  course,  that  under  her  auspices — an  excellent  expression, 
by  the  way — I  shall  settle  down.” 

There  was  a  short  silence,  Gussie  saying  nothing  because 
what  he  would  have  liked  to  remark  would  have  been  too 
strong  to  be  civil,  and  Doris  because  she  was  wondering 
how,  with  the  example  before  his  eyes  of  David's  marriage 
with  a  rich  woman  he  did  not  greatly  care  for,  Charlie 
could  boldly  take  a  similar  step  himself.  Charlie  of  course 
broke  the  silence  himself. 

“  Shall  we  go  for  a  walk,  Doris?  Do  let  us  go  for  a 
walk!  It's  quite  early,  and  it  isn't  a  bit  cold;  and  then  we 
can  lose  Gussie,  and  go  away  by  ourselves,  and  I'll  give 
you  that  lock  of  hair  I  promised  you.  It  isn't  a  very  big 
lock,  because  my  hair's  coming  off,  and  so  I  can't  spare 
much;  but  then  it's  all  the  more  precious,  you  know,  be¬ 
cause  the  supply  is  limited.'' 

So  Doris  was  prevailed  upon  to  get  ready  for  a  walk  on 
the  cliff;  and  then,  whether  by  his  not  unerring  instinct  or 
by  private  arrangement  with  Charlie,  Gussie  did,  when  they 
came  to  a  knot  of  people,  drop  behind  and  get  to  all  intents 
lost  for  a  time,  leaving  Doris  and  the  chatterbox  Papillon 
together.  *  And,  having  assured  himself  that  they  were 
alone,  Charlie  suffered  his  flow  of  what  he  called  conversa¬ 
tion  to  slacken,  and  finally  to  cease  when  they  got  far 
enough  up  the  cliff  to  be  out  of  the  throng  of  people.  Doris 
made  no  remark  on  Gussie's  defection,  and  suffered  herself 
to  be  led  to  the  railing  that  protected  the  promenade,  hav¬ 
ing  a  presentiment  that  these  preliminaries  were  to  lead  to 
something.  Charlie  could  never  be  silent,  or  almost  silent, 
for  three  minutes  at  a  time  without  some  altogether  grav& 
and  portentous  object  in  view.  When,  however,  he  fixed 
his  round  blue  eyes  upon  her  and  began  to  speak,  there  was 
no  particular  expression  on  his  face  to  denote  that  he  was 


144 


BORISES  FORTUK& 


about  to  discourse  of  anything  more  interesting  than  the 
seals  at  the  aquarium. 

“  I  say,  Doris,”  he  began  colloquially,  “  you  don't  mean 
to  stay  here  any  longer  by  yourself,  do  you?” 

“Why  not?”  asked  Doris,  in  a  serious  and  tremulous 
voice. 

“  Well,  you  know,  it  looks  so  odd!” 

“It  is  an  odd  circumstance  that  brings  me  here — at 
least,  it  seems  odd  to  me.  ” 

“  Yes;  but  you  know  your  staying  here  can't  do  any  good. 
And,  on  the  other  hand,  perhaps,  if  you  were  to  meet  him, 
it  would  be  very  unpleasant  for  both  of  you  just  now;  and 
he,  being  off  his  head  as  it  were  just  now,  and  bothered 
and  worried,  he  might — well,  there's  no  saying  how  he 
might  take  it.” 

“  Indeed  it  is  very  hard  upon  him  that  he  should  be  liable 
to  the  annoyance  of  meeting  his  wife!”  said  Doris,  with  ris¬ 
ing  spirit. 

“  No,  no;  of  course  he’s  to  blame;  he  has  done  very 
wrong,  and  he  deserves  anything  you  could  say  to  him. 
But,  Doris,  David  is  really — I  must  say  it — such  a  good  old 
fellow,  so  kind,  so — so — well,  such  a  good-hearted  fellow, 
that — that  I  can't  bear  to  think  he  should  be  uncomfortable 
and  unhappy.  I  know  I  have  no  right  to  advise  you,  and 
you  may  blow  me  up  as  much  as  you  like;  but  I  am  sure 
you,  who  are  so  good  yourself,  wouldn't  like  a  scandal,  and 
people  to  talk,  but  would  rather  forgive  and  make  it  up 
again.  'Well,  if  you  would  go  back  quietly  to  town,  it 
would  all  come  right,  and  David  would  come  back  like  the 
lost  sheep  and  the  Prodigal  Son,  and  then  you  could  blow 
him  up,  and  it  would  be  all  over,  and  you  could  live  happy 
ever  after.  There  now — wouldn't  that  be  best?” 

Doris  listened  to  this  not  very  scholarly  discourse  with  the 
tears  running  down  her  cheeks.  After  a  moment's  pause, 
she  said  rather  bitterly — 

“Your  advice  is  thrown  away,  as  there  is  nothing  left 
for  me  to  do  but  to  go  back  to  town.  David  has  left 
Brighton,  and  I  don't  know  where  he  is.” 

Charlie  was  evidently  relieved;  he  had  dreaded  the  conse¬ 
quences  of  a  meeting  unwelcome  to  the  man,  having  a  very 
strong  feeling  that  nothing  was  so  likely  to  determine 
David  to  “  bolt  for  it.”  As  it  was,  with  the  fear  of  im¬ 
mediate  friction  removed,  he  trusted  much  to  the  healing 


Doris's  fortune. 


143 


influence  of  time,  the  caprice  of  Mrs.  Hodson,  and  the  nat¬ 
ural  goodness  of  two  hearts  which  had  unaccountably  shown 
so  little  disposition  to  beat  together.  Charlie  did  not  feel 
that  he  could  afford  the  “  extra  "  of  sentiment  in  his  own 
marriage;  but  a  woman  with  seven  thousand  a  year  can 
afford  what  she  pleases,  and,  as  for  David,  why,  how  any 
woman  could  be  married  to  him  and  not  be  ready  to  make 
any  sacrifices  necessary  to  his  convenience,  Charlie,  who 
was  as  loyal  to  his  male  friends  as  he  was  irresponsible  in 
his  dealings  with  the  inferior  sex,  could  not  understand. 

The  object  of  his  tete-a  We,  and  indeed  of  his  visit  to 
Brighton,  being  thus  attained,  Charlie  turned  back  with 
Doris;  and  they  soon  rejoined  Gussie,  who  was  found  enjoy¬ 
ing  a  cigar  and  evidently  waiting  for  them,  though  he  pro¬ 
fessed  that  he  had  lost  sight  of  them  by  accident  and  that 
he  had  been  hunting  for  them  ever  since. 

They  were  all  rather  subdued  as  they  walked  back  to  the 
Queen's,  where  they  said  good-bye,  as  the  young  men  had 
to  return  to  town  early  the  next  morning. 

On  the  following  afternoon  Doris  returned  to  London. 
She  called  upon  her  grandmother  in  the  evening,  and  was 
much  relieved  on  discovering  that  the  old  lady  did  not  at¬ 
tempt  to  take  her  to  task  for  her  escapade;  she  had  even 
the  self-restraint  to  abstain  from  any  reference  to  David, 
so  that  the  visit  passed  off  quite  tranquilly. 

Doris  lived  through  the  next  few  days  in  a  dream-like, 
objectless  manner,  always  hoping  for  some  tidings,  but 
almost  despairing  of  the  penitent  return  Charlie  and  Mrs. 
Edgcombe  seemed  to  expect.  At  last  tidings  came. 

She  had  been  back  in  her  own  home  a  week  when  Charlie 
•Papillon  called  upon  her  late  one  afternoon,  and  greeted 
her  with  a  subdued  excitement  whkh  made  her  draw  back, 
look  anxiously  into  his  face,  and  whisper — 

“  What  is  it?  You  have  heard  something!" 

“  Go  and  put  your  things  on,  Doris,"  he  answered  mys¬ 
teriously,  and  not  without  triumph.  “  Remember,  it  was 
I  who  found  him. " 

He  would  not  tell  her  anything  more  then;  but,  as  they 
drove  along  a  few  minutes  later  in  the  direction  of  the  city, 
he  doled  out,  bit  by  bit,  jealously,  proudly,  the  intelligence 
he  had  for  her — how,  on  hearing  a  messenger  had  been 
sent  to  David's  office  in  Somerset  House,  asking  if  there 
were  any  letters  for  Mr.  Glyn,  he  had  waylaid  that  boy,  and 


146 


DORIS'S  FORTUNE. 


bribed  him  to  disclose  Mr.  Glyn’s  hiding-place,  which 

{proved  to  be  a  city  lodging-house;  how  he  had  further; 
earned  that  Mr.  Glyn  was  ill,  upon  the  receipt  of  which1 
tidings  he  had  at  once  resolved  not  to  waste  time  by  going; 
to  investigate  for  himself,  but  to  take  Doris  with  him. 

“  He  is  ill  then?”  Doris  said,  in  a  low  voice,  when  he 
had  finished  his  recital. 

“  Oh,  don’t  be  alarmed  about  that,  Doris!  Providence 
has  only  sent  him  a  little  touch  of  indisposition  to  make 
him  more  amenable  to  good  influences,”  said  Charlie,  who 
was  getting  hilarious  in  the  belief  that  all  would  come  right 
at  last. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Doris  was  very  silent  during  the  drive,  and  Charlie  had 
tact  enough  to  restrain  his  glib  tongue,  seeing  that  his 
companion  was  not  in  the  mood  to  appreciate  his  conversa¬ 
tion  as  she  ought.  Although  her  thoughts  during  the  last 
ten  days  had  run  on  little  else  than  a  hoped-for  meeting 
with  her  husband,  and  she  had  pictured  to  herself  a  variety 
of  ways  in  which  a  reconciliation  might  come  about,  now 
that  the  moment  was  so  near  she  tried  in  vain  to  decide  on 
the  words  she  ought  to  use,  the  attitude  she  ought  to  take, 
to  bring  David,  penitent  and  loving,  to  her  arms.  She 
had  half  resolved  at  last  to  be  very  calm,  very  quiet,  to  be¬ 
have  as  nearly  as  possible  as  if  nothing  had  happened  to 
divide  them,  this  being  the  line  of  conduct  she  believed  the 
least  likely  to  offend  his  delicate  susceptibility. 

It  struck  her,  with  the  clearness  of  mental  vision  which 
often  comes  to  us  at  a  time  of  high  excitement,  as  strange 
that  she,  certainly  the  innocent,  certainly  the  injured  party, 
should  be  the  one  to  have  to  come  humbly,  with  downcast 
meek  eyes  and  knees  ready  to  bend  in  supplication  or  in 
thankfulness,  according  to  the  mood  in  which  the  offending 
party  should  deign  to  receive  her.  ,  She  had  had  no  love- 
affairs  of  her  own,  nor  had  she  studied  deeply  those  of 
other  people,  or  she  might  have  learned  something  from  the 

f)rostrate,  ridiculous  meekness  in  courtship  of  many  a  man- 
y  young  fellow  who  means  to  have  it  all  his  own  way  in 
marriage,  and  who,  with  more  or  less  modification,  suc¬ 
ceeds.  Too  strong  and  too  modest  to  have  any  craving  for 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


147 


rule,  she  did  not  yet  fully  understand  the  weakness  of  the 
nature  to  which  she  had  innocently  looked  for  guid$,nc0* 
did  not  understand  that  in  events  of  importance  she  would 
always  have  to  take  the  initiative  in  a  more  or  less  veiled 
manner,  or  risk  disaster  to  both  of  them.  It  was  dark 
when  the  brougham  stopped,  too  dark  for  Doris  to  see, 
even  if  she  had  been  in  a  humor  to  notice,  the  appearance 
of  the  house  the  door  of  which  was  slowly  opened  after 
Charlie  Papillon's  second  ring. 

Doris  was  led  into  the  house,  up  the  dark  staircase,  to 
the  second  floor,  and  into  a  large  room  where  the  gas  had 
not  yet  been  lighted. 

“  Who's  that?”  asked  Davids  voice,  hoarse  and  broken 
— not  like  the  gentle  tones  which  had  been  half  tho  secret 
of  his  popularity. 

“  It’s  only  some  friends  come  to  see  you,  sir,”  answered 
the  landlady  reassuringly.  “  Here — where's  the  matches? 
I'll  light  the  gas  in  one  minute,  ma'am,  and  then  you'll 
be  able  to  see  for  yourself  how  ill  the  poor  gentleman  looks. 
I'm  thankful  indeed  to  find  he  has  friends  to  look  after 
him,  for  he  seems  real  lorn  and  lone-like.” 

The  woman,  who  seemed  to  be  from  the  country  and  not 
yet  smoke-dried  into  the  more  common  form  of  bloodless 
and  blood -sucking  London  landladyhood,  lighted  two  burn¬ 
ers  of  the  dusty  chandelier,  and  revealed  a  pitiful  sight 
enough.  On  the  faded  green  sofa  with  its  back  to  one  of 
the  windows  sat  David,  pale,  hollow-eyed,  haggard  and  un¬ 
shaven.  He  had  raised  his  head  from  an  uneasy  resting- 
place  of  musty  cushions  on  their  entrance;  and  now,  as  the 
unwelcome  light  fell  upon  his  dazed  and  staring  eyes,  he 
got  up  unsteadily  and,  advancing  a  step,  tried,  with  an  En¬ 
glishman's  instinctive  wish  to  avoid  a  scene,  above  all,  be¬ 
fore  witnesses,  to  say,  “  How  do  you  do?"  and  that  he  was 
glad  to  see  them. 

But  the  sight  of  her  husband,  a  horror-struck  glance  at 
the  miserable  surroundings,  had  put  all  Doris's  prepared 
speeches  and  rules  of  conduct  to  flight.  The  tears  were  in 
her  eyes,  her  voice  had  in  its  ring  the  new-found  tenderness 
of  a  young  mother,  as  she  took  one  of  his  hands,  and,  with 
a  firm  and  gentle  touch  on  his  right  shoulder,  persuaded 
him  to  resume  his  seat.  He  looked  into  her  face  in  a  heavy 
surprised  way,  without  seeming  able  to  draw  any  logical 
deduction  from  the  unexpected  nature  of  the  action. 


148 


D0EIS*S  POETUKE. 


u  He  will  be  all  right  now/*  she  said,  turning  to  the 
landlady  with  a  tearfully  smiling  face;  “I  am  going  to 
take  him  home.** 

The  woman  was  human  enough  to  look  rather  crest-fallen 
at  the  prospect  of  losing  her  lodger  so  soon.  Doris,  with 
the  undue  contempt  of  those  who  have  known  none  but 
sorrows  of  sentiment  for  those  who  are  forced  to  consider 
such  sorrows  a  luxury,  decided  that  she  was  mercenary; 
giving  her  purse  to  Charlie,  she  intimated  in  a  whisper  that 
lie  was  to  pay  her  well.  So  her  embassador  obediently 
beckoned  the  landlady  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  hus¬ 
band  and  wife  alone  together.  Both  felt  embarrassed  at 
once.  Doris’s  heart  was  bursting  with  loving  forgiveness; 
David  was  shy,  ashamed,  physically  and  mentally  unfit  for 
any  further  shock,  as  she,  more  sensitive  to  his  feelings, 
more  clear-sighted  than  she  had  formerly  been,  distinctly 
felt.  He  broke  away  from  the  touch  of  her  hand,  and 
walked  to  the  fire-place,  where  a  fire  was  burning.  But  he 
shivered  as  he  stood  before  it,  and  leaned  against  the  mantel¬ 
piece,  with  his  head  on  his  hand. 

“  There  is  a  draught  from  this  window,**  she  said,  after 
a  pause,  glancing  at  the  rattling  panes  behind  the  sofa. 

“  Yes/*  said  he;  “  but  my  head  aches;  and  it  was  cool 
there.** 

He  was  grateful  to  her  for  going  straight  to  common¬ 
place,  not  heedless  either  of  the  new  tenderness  in  her 
voice;  he  became  on  the  instant  less  afraid  of  her;  and,  as 
she  said  nothing  more,  he  turned  his  head  slowly  just  far 
enough  to  be  able  to  glance  furtively  at  her.  But,  rapid 
as  the  look  was,  it  could  not  escape  the  notice  of  her  stead¬ 
fast  loving  eyes.  Doris  came  nearer  to  him,  slowly,  se¬ 
ductively,  as  one  does  to  a  timid  animal  one  wishes  to  tame. 

“  You  are  feverish  I  think/*  she  said  gently;  “  you  have 
caught  cold.  Yes,  your  hands  are  cold,  and  ** — she  drew 
off  her  glove,  and  put  her  right  hand  caressingly  on  his 
forehead,  so  that  he  did  not  know  what  was  coming  until 
he  was  half  in  her  embrace — “  and  your  head  is  hot.  You 
are  not  well  at  all;  you  will  have  to  submit  to  be  nutsed 
for  a  day  or  two,  I  feel  sure.** 

She  tried  to  speak  quite  lightly,  not  yet  sure  what  emo¬ 
tion  a  too-ready  display  of  eagerness  to  have  him  back 
might  awake  in  him;  but.  her  voice,  gentle,  loving,  not  en¬ 
tirely  steady,  was  so  eloquent  that  no  passionate  harangue 


DOKXS’s  FOBTUim 


14! 


could  have  touched  him  more  with  sensations  of  shame  and 
self-contempt  and  a  new  conviction  of  the  extent  to  which 
he  had  misjudged  his  wife’s  nature. 

“  Thank  you — it  is  nothing — you  are  much  too  good  to 
me/’  he  said  restlessly;  and  then,  with  an  uneasy  con¬ 
sciousness  that  his  last  words  summed  up  the  whole  situa¬ 
tion,  he  turned  away  from  the  fire-place  just  as  Charlie  re¬ 
entered  the  room. 

“  Come  along,  old  Davy!  Here— where’s  your  overcoat? 
You  mustn’t  go  out  without  it  this  weather.  Mrs.  Glyn,  I 
must  trouble  you  to  do  your  husband’s  packing,  as  I  am 
employed  in  packing  up  your  husband.’’ 

And,  as  Doris  bustled  about  the  room,  filling  in  a  ran¬ 
dom  and  unmethodical  manner  David’s  small  portmanteau 
with  newspapers  of  the  day  before,  slippers,  the  pen-wiper 
belonging  to  the  room,  and  everything  else  that  her  hands 
fell  upon,  Charlie  on  his  side  kept  up  the  commotion  with 
a  volubility  of  childish  talk  which  left  their  prisoner  no 
chance  of  protest,  and  covered  beautifully  the  awkwardness 
of  the  situation.  The  drive  home,  with  Charlie  squeezed 
into  the  uncomfortable  little  front  seat  of  the  brougham, 
was  managed  with  equal  success,  the  actual  home-coming 
with  even  more,  as  the  indefatigable  Papillon,  intelligently 
seconded  by  Doris,  almost  succeeded  in  giving  the  curious 
and  suspicious  servants  the  impression  that  their  master’s 
absence  had  been  of  a  more  commonplace  and  less  interest¬ 
ing  nature  than  they  had  believed. 

But,  when  Charlie,  after  staying  to  a  dinner  at  which  he 
did  all  the  eating  and  all  the  talking,  and  spending  an  hour 
in  the  drawing-room  which  only  bis  presence  saved  from 
being  awkward,  saw  that  the  time  had  come  wdien  David’s 
evident  fatigue  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  help  the  un¬ 
happy  couple  longer,  and  when  he  had  wrung  both  their 
hands  with  a  sincerity  which  touched  Doris’s  heart  and  hurt 
her  fingers,  the  airy  philosopher  bade  them  good-night  and 
took  his  departure.  David,  with  an  extra  burst  of  friend¬ 
ship,  or  with  a  cowardly  fear  of  being  at  last  left  helplessly 
alone  with  his  wife,  rushed  out  after  him  into  the  hall,  and 
thence  on  to  the  door-step,  regardless  of  a  duet  of  warning 
from  Charlie  on  the  pavement  and  Doris  at  the  drawing¬ 
room  door. 

Then  David  came  back;  and,  as  the  front  door  closed, 
Doris  slipped  into  the  drawing-room  again  with  excited  ap* 


ISO 


DORISES  FORTE  HE. 


prehension  of  the  scene  which  must  follow.  But  it  did 
not.  David  merely  opened  the  door,  and,  saying  sweetly, 
“  Good-night,  dear.  Fm  so  tired  that  I  think  Fll  go  to 
bed.  A  long  night  may  do  my  head  good,”  he  disappeared 
again  before  she  had  had  time  to  take  more  than  a  step 
toward  the  door  as  she  said,  “  Oh,  good-night,  dear!” 

The  next  moment  she  heard  him  going  upstairs. 

Doris  was  dismayed.  She  had  meant  to  make  his  return 
easy  for  him,  and  she  had  succeeded  so  far  as  to  make  it 
too  easy.  She  had  meant  to  pave  the  way  for  a  reconcilia¬ 
tion,  an  explanation,  and  an  apology,  no  matter  how 
sketchy,  how  quickly  accepted  and  hushed  up  by  the  ready ! 
affection  she  was  so  willing  to  bestow;  she  felt  that  some 
advance  on  the  part  of  her  husband  was  only  her  due  after 
all  the  sacrifices  she  had  made  to  her  own  pride,  all  the 
pain  he  had,  without  fault  of  hers,  made  her  suffer.  And 
now,  instead,  he  seemed  to  be  taking  advantage  of  her  long- 
suffering  patience  to  slip  into  the  old,  cold,  empty  reserve, 
and  perhaps  the  old  estrangement.  Doris  could  have  cried 
with  mortification,  with  longing,  with  bitter  disappoint¬ 
ment.  For  she  loved  her  husband  and  yearned  for  him  in 
his  weakness,  in  his  fault,  far  more  than  she  had  done  in 
the  old  days  when  he  stood  immaculate  on  a  pedestal,  out 
of  reach  of  her  sympathy  and  of  her  understanding.  How¬ 
ever,  to  have  got  him  back  at  all — got  back  at  least  the 
cold,  passive  shell  which  she  knew  to  contain  something 
living,  breathing,  human,  suffering — was  something;  and 
she  conquered  her  impulse  to  tears,  and,  after  a  lonely  hour 
spent  by  the  embers  of  the  fire  till  all  the  house  was  still, 
she  went  upstairs  to  bed. 

David  was  asleep,  so  she  thought.  But,  when,  some 
minutes  after  she  had  placed  her  head  on  her  pillow  very 
softly,  for  fear  of  disturbing  him,  she  imitated  the  regular 
breathing  of  sleep  herself  to  see  whether  it  was  true  that 
his  mind  was  composed  enough  to  let  him  rest  so  soon,  she 
presently  heard  him  move  and  felt  the  sofc  touch  of  his 
lips  upon  her  face.  The  touch  was  magnetic,  and  thrilled 
her;  for  in  the  soft,  faint-hearted  kiss  she  felt,  not  passion¬ 
ate  affection  indeed,  but  self-reproach,  gratitude,  penitence 
• — a  dozen  feelings  which  showed  that  the  road  was  smoothed 
for  her  march,  which  she  might  well  flatter  herself  would 
in  time  be  a  triumphant  one.  So  she  at  length  fell  asleep 
with  hope  in  her  heart. 


DORISES  FORTUNE. 


151 


The  next  three  days  and  nights  passed  evenly,  with  no 
outward  eventfulness  at  all.  A  third  person  would  have 
been  acute  if  he  had  perceived  any  difference  in  their  gen¬ 
eral  conduct  or  their  behavior  toward  each  other  from  that 
of  their  old  life  before  the  late  disaster. 

David  went  to  his  office  as  usual;  true  he  returned  earlier 
than  before,  but  he  was  not  particularly  entertaining  or  live¬ 
ly;  and  it  was  only  little  by  little  that  his  wife  was  begin¬ 
ning,  by  persistent  and  unvarying  sweetness  more  assured 
than  of  old,  to  cure  him  of  a  habit  of  shrinking  away  from 
her  which  had  taken  the  place  of  his  former  lifeless  passiv¬ 
ity  in  her  presence.  Even  this  sign  of  a  change  she  accept-  * 
ed  hopefully;  that  he  should  feel  a  sense  of  shyness  in  hei 
presence  was  infinitely  better  than  that  he  should  feel  noth¬ 
ing  at  all;  and  she  had  succeeded  at  last  in  passing  quite  a 
cheerful  evening  with  him  in  which  she  had  had  the  tri¬ 
umph,  by  force  of  her  own  rising  spirits,  of  making  him 
quite  animated,  when  the  next  morning  a  chill  was  cast 
over  her  new  hopes  by  the  arrival  of  two  letters,  both  con¬ 
taining  tidings  of  her  always-unmentioned  rival. 

One  was  a  letter  directed  to  her  husband  in  Mrs.  Hod- 
son^s  handwriting;  the  postmark  was  Richmond — Doris 
was  curious  enough  to  ascertain  that,  as  she  took  the  letter 
in  her  hand,  before  her  husband  came  down,  and  felt  a  vio¬ 
lent  wish  to  tear  it  up  and  throw  it  into  the  fire.  However, 
she  replaced  it  at  the  top  of  the  pile,  and,  forgetful  of  her 
own  letters,  prepared  to  watch  his  face  when  his  eyes 
should  fail  upon  it.  This  happened  of  course  as  soon  as  he 
came  into  the  room.  He  became  first  red,  then  white,  and 
glanced  at  his  wife,  whose  eyes  fell  after  the  first  agonized 
look  she  had  ventured  to  take  at  his  face.  He  said  nothing 
about  the  letter,  and,  turning  over  the  whole  pile  as  if  care¬ 
lessly,  opened  and  read  the  rest;  but,  as  Doris  noticed,  he 
left  that  one  unread,  and  she  dared  not  ask  him  why. 
After  breakfast  however,  which  was  short,  and  during  which 
the  talk  was  like  their  old  talks,  intermittent  and  con¬ 
strained,  he  gathered  up  all  his  letters,  Mrs.  Hodson's 
amongst  them,  and  disappeared  into  the  library. 

She  started  up,  longing  to  follow  him,  feeling  that  now 
at  last  she  must  have  that  scene,  that  climax  to  her  pent-up 
feelings,  for  which  her  feminine  nature  had  long  been 
yearning.  Prudence  got  the  better  of  her  again,  and  told 
her  she  must  not  risk  her  patient  work  by  a  premature  en- 


152  DORIS'S  FORTUNE. 

gagement.  Resolutely  she  took  up  the  letters  to  which  sh« 
had  been  till  now  too  deeply  occupied  to  attend.  The  first 
she  opened  was  from  her  grandmother.  It  told  her  how 
thankful  she  was  to  hear  that  her  dear  Doris  was  on  the 
road  to  being  happy  at  last,  as  Charlie  Papillon  had,  in  a 
very  kind-hearted  manner,  been  good  enough  to  come  and 
inform  her.  She  added  that  she  found  she  had  formerly 
underrated  both  that  young  gentleman's  feelings  and  sense, 
though  he  still  talked  of  his  own  fiancee  with  insufficient 
propriety  of  diction.  Mrs.  Edgcombe  and  he  had  j  udged  it 
best  to  leave  the  reunited  couple  to  themselves  for  a  few 
days;  but  she  herself  only  needed  a  word  from  Doris  to 
come  and  witness  their  new-found  happiness.  Then  came 
a  few  lines  which  made  Doris's  heart  quake  with  pain;  Mrs. 
Edgcombe  had  just  learned  that  Mrs.  Hodson  and  her 
husband  had  patched  up  a  reconciliation,  and  were  back 
again  at  Richmond,  after  a  composition  with  the  latter's 
creditors,  with  the  help  of  his  brother-in-law.  The  old  lady 
hoped,  however,  that  Doris  would  not  be  so  indiscreet  as  to 
injure 'her  own  chance  of  happiness  by  consenting  to  counte¬ 
nance  a  renewal  of  her  husband's  acquaintance  with  either 
husband  or  wife. 

Doris  laid  the  letter  down  in  her  lap,  and  looked  out  at 
the  gray  day  with  a  face  in  which  doubt  was  turning  slowly 
to  resolution.  At  last  she  rose;  she  had  borne  suspense 
long  enough;  she  must  have  certainty,  of  whatever  kind  it 
might  be.  She  took  up  the  letter,  went  to  her  husband's 
study,  and  knocked  at  th^  door. 

“  Come  in,"  said  David. 

As  she  entered,  he  raised  his  head  from  the  table  at  which 
he  wa3  writing.  He  looked  animated,  and  smiled  at  her. 
But  she  did  not  smile  back.  With  a  grave,  solemn  face, 
and  glancing  anxiously  at  the  paper  before  him,  she  handed 
him  her  letter. 

“  I  have  just  received  this  from  grandmamma.  Please 
read  it,"  said  she,  in  a  cold,  almost  despairing  voice. 

He  took  it  from  her  and  read  it  carefully.  Then  he 
handed  her  a  letter  of  his  own,  saying — 

“  I  have  just  received  this.  Read  it." 

It  was  the  letter  from  Mrs.  Hodson.  Surmounting  a  re¬ 
pugnance  which  made  her  turn  scarlet  as  she  touched  the 
paper,  Doris  took  it,  and  read  an  invitation,  in  her  old 
charming  style,  with  all  the  fascinating  liveliness  and  play 


*  > 


Boris’s  fortune. 


153 


ful  tone  of  command  which  made  every  written  word  ring 
in  the  ears  as  if  it  were  being  spoken  by  the  writer,  to  a 
musical  evening  at  the  Lawns,  to  which  David  was  to  be 
sure  to  bring  the  charming  wife  he  did  not  half  appreciate 
as  he  ought. 

Doris  gave  it  back  without  a  word,  but  with  a  look  in 
which  she  could  not  hide  disgust. 

“  And  this  is  my  answer/'’  said  David,  who  had  been  fin¬ 
ishing  his  note  as  she  read. 

But  Dorises  hand  trembled  now  as  she  held  it  out  without 
a  look  at  him.  It  was  a  very  short  note: 

“  Mrs.  Hodsom. 

“  Dear  Madame, — My  wife  and  I  join  in  thanking  you 
for  your  very  kind  invitation.  It  is  only  one  more  instance  of 
the  kind  concern  you  and  Mr.  Hodson  have  always  taken  in 
our  mutual  happiness.  You  will  be  pleased  to  learn  how¬ 
ever  that,  chiefly  through  your  kind  agency,  I  have  learned 
a  lesson  toward  appreciating  her  better,  which  makes  it  im¬ 
possible  for  me  to  spare  even  so  much  of  her  society  as  a 
visit  together  to  the  Lawns  would  give  to  others  than  my¬ 
self.  Forgive  my  selfishness,  and  believe  me  to  remain, 
madarne, 

“  Yours  very  truly, 

“  David  Glyk.” 

Doris  began  to  cry;  so  her  husband  gently  took  the  note 
away  from  her,  lest  her  tears  should  spoil  it,  folded  it,  put 
it  into  an  envelope,  and  wrote  the  direction.  His  wife  mean¬ 
while  tried  to  repress  her  sobs  and  dried  her  eyes. 

Then  David  got  up,  drew  her  to  him  with  the  firm  warm 
clasp  she  had  yearned  for  so  long,  and  kissed  the  nape  of 
her  neck  fervently,  repeatedly,  without  at  first  speaking. 

“  What  are  you  crying  for?”  he  whispered  at  last. 
“  Are  you  sorry  I’ve  found  out  that  I’ve  been  a  fool  and  a 
brute — sorry  that  you  have  conquered  my  own  shame — 
sorry  that  I  love  you?” 

“  Oh,  David!”  was  all  she  had  to  say  to  him. 

But  he  sat  again  in  his  chair,  and  drew  her  to  his  knees, 
and,  utterly  conquered,  excited  by  her  passionate  reception 
of  his  tardy  confession,  he  poured  out  incoherent  words  into 
her  sympathetic  ears — words  which,  broken  as  they  were, 
no  understanding  except  hers  could  have  interpreted  as  the 


154 


DORIS  S  FORTUFTE. 


history  of  his  fear  of  her  coldness,  weak  yielding  to  a  show 
of  sympathy,  his  struggles,  remorse,  despair,  and  peni¬ 
tence. 

Doris  would  not  hear  much,  even  if  the  man  had  been 
eloquent  enough  to  tell  much.  But  a  pause,  a  broken 
word,  a  look,  told  her  sympathetic  heart  more  than  she 
wanted  to  know;  the  barrier  between  the  two  natures  was 
broken  down  forever.  The  world  would  go  on  as  before  for 
them;  they  would  err  again,  they  would  suffer  again;  but 
the  error  would  not  be  of  the  one  toward  the  other,  and  the 
suffering  time  might  bring  them  they  would  bear  together. 


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5  Night  Scenes  in  Mew  York.  5 

6  Old  Electricity,  the  Light¬ 

ning  Detective . 5 

7  The  Shadow  Detective .  5 

3  Red-Light  Will,  the  River 

Detective .  5 

9  Iron  Burgess,  the  Govern¬ 

ment  Detective .  5 

10  The  Brigands  of  New  York.  5 

11  Tracked  by  a  Ventriloquist.  5 

12  The  Twin  Shadowers .  5 

13  The  French  Detective .  5 

14  Billy  Wayne,  the  St.  Louis 

Detective . 5 

15  The  New  York  Detective...  5 

16  O’Neil  McDarragh,  the  De¬ 

tective .  5 

17  Old  Sleuth  in  Harness  Again  5 

18  The  Lady  Detective .  5 

19  The  Yankee  Detective .  5 

20  The  Fastest  Boy  in  New 

York  . .  5 

21  Black  Raven,  the  Georgia 

Detective .  5 

22  Night-Hawk,  the  Mounted 

Detective .  5 

23  The  Gypsy  Detective .  5 

24  The  Mysteries  and  Miseries 

of  New'  York .  5 

25  Old  Terrible .  5 

26  The  Smugglers  of  New  York 

Bay .  5 

27  Manfred,  the  Magic  Trick 

Detective . 5 

28  Mura,  the  Western  Lady 

.  Detective .  5 

29  Mons.  Armand;  or,  The 

French  Detective  in  Newr 
York .  5 

30  Lady  Kate,  the  Dashing  Fe¬ 

male  Detective . 5 

31  Hamud.  the  Detective .  5 

32  The  Giant  Detective  in 

France . 5 

33  The  American  Detective  in 

Russia .  5 

34  The  Dutch  Detective . 5 


35  Old  Puritan,  the  Old-Time 

Yankee  Detective . 

36  Manfred’s  Quest . 

37  Tom  Thumb;  or.  The  Won¬ 

derful  Boy  Detective _ 

38  Old  Ironsides  Abroad . 

39  Little  Black  Tom ;  or,  The 

Adventures  of  a  Mis¬ 
chievous  Darky . 

40  Old  Ironsides  Among  the 

Cowb<  >ys . 

41  Black  Tom  in  Search  of  a 

Father:  or,  The  Further 
Adventures  of  a  Mis¬ 
chievous  Darkly . 

42  Bonanza  Bardie;  or,  The 

Treasure  of  the  Rockies. 

43  Old  Transform,  the  Secret 

Special  Detective . 

44  The  King  of  the  Shadowers. 

45  Gasparoni,  the  Italian  De¬ 

tective.  . . 

46  Old  Sleuth's  Luck . 

47  The  Irish  Detective . 

4S  Dow  n  in  a  Coal  Mine . 

49  Faithful  Mike,  the  Irish 

Hero . 

50  Silver  Tom,  the  Detective.. 

51  The  Duke  of  New  York _ 

52  Jack  Gameway;  or.  A  West¬ 

ern  Boy  in  New  York _ 

53  All  Round  New  York . 

54  Old  Ironsides  in  Newr  York. 

55  Jack  Ripple  and  His  Talk¬ 

ing  Dog . . 

56  Bill}'  Joyce,  the  Govern¬ 

ment  Detective . 

57  Badger  and  His  Shadow. . . 

58  Darral,  the  Detective . 

59  Old  Sleuth,  Badger  &  Co. . . 

60  Old  Phenomenal . 

61  A  Golden  Curse . 

62  The  Mysterious  Murder. . . . 

63  Monte-Cristo  Ben . 

64  The  Bowery  Detective . 

65  The  Boy  Detective . 

66  Detective  Thrash . 

67  Ebeon,  the  Detective . .* 

68  Old  Ironsides  at  His  Best.. 

69  Archie  the  Wonder . 

70  The  Red  Detective . 


The  foregoing  books  are  for  sale  by  all  new  sdealers,  or  will  be 
sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  on  receipt  of  6  cents  each,  or  5  for 
96  cents,  by  the  publishers.  Address 

George  Munro’s  Sons,  Munro’s  Publishing  House, 


(P.  O.  B#x  2781.)  17  to  27  Vandewater  St.,  New  York# 


otc*ototcto.  etotototutotetctc*  or  ot  c*  c*  ©«  «*  c*  o*  c*  c*  c*  etc*  ot  ot  ot  c*  etc*  ct  c* 


6  GEORGE  MUNRO’S  SONS'  PUBLICATIONS, 


ATTRACTIVE  HAND-BOOKS. 


The  Art  of  Housekeeping.  By 
Mrs.  Mary  Stuart  Smith..  25 

The  New  York  Fashion  Bazar 


Model  Letter-Writer  and 
Lovers’  Oracle . 25 

The  New  York  Fashion  Bazar 
Book  of  the  Toilet . 25 


The  New  York  Fashion  Bazar 
Book  of  Etiquette . 25 

Munro’s  Star  Recitations. 
Compiled  and  Edited  by 
Mrs.  Mary  E.  Bryan . 25 

Good  Form:  A  Book  of  Every 
Day  Etiquette.  By  Mrs. 
Armstrong . 25 


MISCELLANEOUS  BOOKS. 


Juliet  Corson’s  New  Family 
Cook  Book.  By  Miss  J  u- 
liet  Corson . $1.00 

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By  the  Rev.  T.  De  Witt 
Talmage . $1.00 

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derland.  By  Lewis  Car- 
roll  .  50 

Through  the  Looking-Glass 
and  What  Alice  Found 
There.  By  Lewis  Carroll.  50 

The  Shadow  Detective.  By 
“Old  Sleuth” . 50 

Blood  is  Thicker  than  Water: 

A  Few  Days  Among  Our 
Southern  Brethren.  By 
Henry  M.  Field,  D.D....0  25 


A  Practical  Guide  to  the  Ac¬ 
quisition  of  the  Spanish 
Language.  By  Lucie n 
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“Old  Sleuth” . 25 

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of  Wild  and  Amusing  Ad¬ 
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2  and  3  -  Practical  Guides 
to  the  French  Language. 

By  Lucien  Oudin,  A  M...  25 

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Method  of  Learning  Ger¬ 
man  on  a  New  and  Easy 
Plan.  By  Edward  Cha- 
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low’s  Dialogues . 10 

No.  2— The  Clemence  and 

Donkey  Dialogues . 10 

No.  3 — Mrs  Smith  s  Board¬ 
ers’  Dialogues .  10 

No.  4— Schoolboys’  Comic 

Dialogues .  10 

No.  1— Vot  I  Know  ’Bout 
Gruel  Societies  Speaker  10 
No.  2— The  John  B.  Go-off 

Comic  Speaker .  10 

No.  3— My  Boy  Vilhelm’s 
Speaker .  10 

Kitchen  Lessons  for  Young 
Housekeepers.  By  Annie 
H.  Jerome . 10 

Letter-Writing  Made  Easy. . .  10 


The  foregoing  books  are  for  sale  by  all  newsdealers,  or  will  be 
sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  on  receipt  of  the  price,  by  the  pub¬ 
lishers.  Address 

GEORGE  MVJNRO’S  SONS, 

Munro’s  Publishing  House, 
fP.  O.  Box  2781 )  17  to  27  Vande  water  St.,  New  Yer& 


Munro’s  Library  of  Popular  Novels. 


S2 


1  A  Yellow  Aster.  “  Iota.” 

8  Esther  Waters.  George  Moore. 

3  The  Man  in  Black.  Stanley  J.  Wey- 

rnan. 

4  Dodo.  E.  F.  Benson. 

5  Ships  that  Pass  in  the  Night.  Bea¬ 

trice  Harraden. 

6  A  Rogue’s  Life.  Wilkie  Collins. 

I  7  The  Duchess.  “The  Duchess.” 

8  Called  Back.  Hugh  Conway. 

9  A  Wicked  Girl.  Mary  Cecil  Hay. 

10  Back  to  the  Old  Home.  Mary  Cecil 

Hay. 

II  Wedded  and  Parted.  Charlotte  M. 

Brae  me. 

12  The  Bag  of  Diamonds.  George 

Manville  Fenn. 

13  The  Octoroon*.  Miss  M.  E.  Bradden. 

14  A  Study  in  Scarlet.  A.  Conan 

Doyle. 

15  Forging  the  Fetters.  Mrs.  Alexan¬ 

der. 

16  My  Lady’s  Money.  Wilkie  Collins. 

17  The  Shadow  of  a  Sin.  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme. 

18  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth.  Char¬ 

les  Dickens 

19  The  Squire’s  Darling.  Charlotte  M. 

Braeme. 

20  Singleheart  and  Doubleface.  Char¬ 

les  Reade. 

21  Lady  Grace.  Mrs.  Henry  Wood. 

22  Maid,  Wife  or  Widow?  Mrs.  Alex¬ 

ander. 

23  Black  Beauty.  Anna  Sewell. 

24  Ideala.  Sarah  Grand,  author  of 
“  The  Heavenly  Twins.” 

25  Camille.  Alexander  Dumas. 

6  Her  Last  Throw.  “  The  Duchess.  ” 

27  Three  Men  in  a  Boat.  J.  K.  Jerome. 

28  The  Honorable  Mrs.  Vereker.  “The 

Duchess.” 

29  The  House  of  the  Wolf.  Stanley  J. 

Weyinan. 

30  Charlotte  Temple.  Mrs.  Rowson. 

31  The  Shattered  Idol.  Charlotte  M. 

Braeme. 

32  Derrick  Vaughan— Novelist.  Edna 

LyaU. 

33  The  Mystery  of  No.  13.  Helen  B. 

Mathers. 

34  He  Went  for  a  Soldier.  John 

Strange  Winter. 

35  The  Haunted  Chamber.  “  The 

Duchess.” 

36  Cleverly  Won.  Hawley  Smart. 

87  Doris’s  Fortune.  Florence  Warden. 

88  Diuna  Forget.  J.  S.  Winter, 

39  The  Earl’s  Error.  Charlotte  M. 

Braeme. 

40  A  Golden  Heart.  Charlotte  M. 

Braeme. 


41  Her  Only  Sin.  Charlotte  M. Braeme. 

42  The  Idle  Thoughts  of  an  Idle  Fel¬ 

low.  Jerome  K.  Jerome. 

43  In  Durance  Vile.  “The  Duchess.” 

44  A  Little  Rebel.  “  The  Duchess.” 

45  A  Little  Irish  Girl.  “  The  Duchess.” 

46  Loys,  Lord  Berresford.  “ The 

Duchess.  ' 

47  The  Moment  After.  Robert  Bu¬ 

chanan. 

48  A  Marriage  at  Sea.  W.  Clark  Rus¬ 

sell. 

49  A  Mad  Love.  Author  of  “Lover 

and  Lord.” 

50  The  Other  Man’s  Wife.  John 

Strange  Winter. 

51  On  Her  Wedding  Morn.  Charlotte 

M.  Braeme. 

52  Stage-Land.  Jerome  K.  Jerome. 

53  Struck  Down.  Hawley  Smart. 

54  A  Star  and  a  Heart.  Florence 

Marry  at. 

55  Sweet  is  True  Love.  “The  Duch¬ 

ess.” 

56  The  Two  Orphans.  D’Ennery. 

57  A  Troublesome  Girl.  “  The  Duch¬ 

ess.” 

58  Two  Generations.  Count  Lyof  Tol¬ 

stoi. 

59  At  the  Green  Dragon.  Beatrice 

Harraden,  author  of  “  Ships  that 
Pass  in  the  Night.” 

60  Singularly  Deluded.  Sarah  Grand. 

61  The  Hired  Bahy  Marie  Corelli. 

62  The  Tour  of  the  World  in  80  Days. 

Jules  Verne. 

63  Little  Pilgrim,  A.  Mrs.  Oliphant. 

64  By  the  Gate  of  the  Sea.  D.  Chris¬ 

tie  Murray\ 

65  Maiden  Fair,  A.  Charles  Gibbon. 

06  The  Romance  of  a  Poor  Young 

Man.  Octave  Feuillet. 

67  The  Red  Eric.  R.  M.  Ballantyne. 

68  The  Fire  Brigade.  R.M.  Ballantyne. 

69  Erling  the  Bold.  R.  M.  Ballantyne. 

70  Rose  Fleming.  Dora  Russell. 

71  Reveries  of  a  Bachelor.  Ik.  Mar¬ 

vel. 

72  Under  the  Red  Flag.  Miss  M.  E. 

Brad don. 

73  The  Little  School-master  Mark.  J. 

H.  Shorthouse. 

74  Mrs.  Carr's  Companion.  M.  G. 

Wightwick. 

75  Diamond  Cut  Diamond.  T.  Adolph¬ 

us  Trollope. 

76  Monica,  and  A  Rose  Distill’d.  “The 

Duchess.” 

77  Afternoon,  and  other  scotches. 

“  Ouida.” 

78  Master  Humphrey’s  Clock.  Charles 

Dickens. 


(Continued  on  next  pagre.) 

■  - 


mi 


Munro's  Library  of  Popular  Novels 


70  The  Witching  Hour,  and  other  stor¬ 
ies.  44 The  Duchess.” 

80  A  Great  Heiress  R.  E.  Francillon. 

81  “That  Last  Rehearsal,”  and  other 

stories.  4*  The  Duchess.” 

82  Uncle  Jack.  Walter  Besant. 

83  The  Romantic  Adventures  of  a  Milk¬ 

maid.  Thomas  Hardy. 

84  A  Glorious  Fortune.  Walter  Be¬ 

sant. 

85  She  Loved  Him!  Annie  Thomas. 

86  One  False,  Both  Fair.  John  B. 

Harwood. 

87  Promises  of  Marriage.  Emile  Ga- 

boriau. 

88  Love  Finds  the  Way,  and  other 

stories.  W.  Besant  and  J.  Rice. 

89  The  Captain’s  Daughter.  From  the 

Russian  of  Pushkin. 

96  For  Himself  Alone.  T.  W.  Speight. 

91  The  Ducie  Diamonds.  C.  Blather- 

wick. 

92  The  Starling.  Norman  Macleod, 

D.D. 

93  Captain  Norton’s  Diary,  and  A  Mo¬ 

ment  of  Madness.  Florence 
Marryat. 

94  Her  Gentle  Deeds.  Sarah  Tytler. 

95  Moonshine  and  Marguerites.  “  The 

Duchess.” 

96  No  Thoroughfare.  Wilkie  Collins 

and  Charles  Dickens. 

97  The  Haunted  Man.  Charles  Dickens 

98  Fortune’s  Wheel.  44  The  Duchess.” 

99  Love's  Random  Shot.  Wilkie  Col 

lins. 

100  An  April  Day.  Philippa  Prittie 

Jephson. 

101  Little  Make-Believe.  B.  L.  Far  jeon. 

102  Round  the  Galley  Fire.  W.  Clark 

Russell. 

103  The  New  Abelard.  Robert  Bu¬ 

chanan. 

104  Old  Contrairy,  and  other  stories. 

Florence  Marryat. 

105  Dita.  Lady  Majendie. 

106  The  Midnight  Sun.  Fredrika  Bre- 
|  mer. 

107  Valerie’s  Fate.  Mrs.  Alexander. 

108  At  the  World’s  Mercy.  F.  Warden. 

109  The  Rosery  Folk.  G.  Manville 

Fenn. 

110  44  So  Near,  and  Yet  So  Far!”  Ali¬ 

son. 

111  A  Husband’s  Story. 

112  The  Fisher  Village.  Anne  Beale. 

113  An  Old  Man’s  Love.  Anthony 

Trollope. 

114  John  Bull  and  His  Island.  Max 

OVRell. 

115  The  Picture,  and  Jack  of  All 

Trades.  Charles  Reade. 

(Continued  on  i 


116  The  Ghost  of  Charlotte  Cray,  and 

other  stories.  Florence  Marryat. 

117  Readiana:  Comments  on  Current 

Events.  Charles  Reade, 

118  Lady  Clare ;  or,  The  Master  of  tit© 

Forges.  Georges  Ohnet. 

119  Love  and  Money;  or,  a  Perilous 

Secret.  Charles  Reade. 

120  Miss  Tommy.  Miss  Mulock. 

121  The  House  on  the  Marsh.  F.  War¬ 

den. 

122  The  Daughter  of  the  Stars,  and 

other  tales.  Hugh  Conway. 

123  A  Sinless  Secret.  “Rita.’'’ 

124  The  Amazon.  Carl  Vosmaer. 

125  Beyond  Recall.  Adeline  Sergeant. 

126  Pi6douche,  a  French  Detective. 

F.  Du  Boisgobey. 

127  The  Water-Babies.  Rev.  Charles 

Kingsley. 

128  The  Southern  Star;  or,  The  Dia¬ 

mond  Field.  Jules  Verne. 

129  Eyre's  Acquittal.  Helen  B.  Ma¬ 

thers. 

130  Miss  Milne  and  I.  Author  of  “A 

Yellow  Aster.” 

131  Vashti  and  Esther.  By  the  writer 

of  “  Belle's  Letters.” 

132  Beyond  the  City.  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

133  A  Scandal  in  Bohemia.  A.  Conan 

Doyle. 

134  The  Sign  of  the  Four.  A.  Conan 

Doyle. 

135  The  Heir  of  Linne.  Robert  Bu¬ 

chanan. 

136  Treasure  Island.  Robert  Louis 

Stevenson. 

137  The  Stickit  Minister.  S.  R.  Crock¬ 

ett. 

138  The  Suicide  Club.  Robert  Louis 

Stevenson. 

139  The  Merry  Men.  Robert  Louis 

Stevenson. 

140  Prince  Otto.  Robert  Louis  Ste¬ 

venson. 

141  The  Misadventures  of  John  Nich¬ 

olson,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

142  An  Inland  Vo3Tage.  Robert  Louis 

Stevenson. 

143  The  Silverado  Squatters.  Robert 

Louis  Stevenson. 

144  The  Master  of  Ballantrae.  Robert 

Louis  Stevenson.  \ 

146  She’s  All  the  'World  to  Me.  Hall 

Caine. 

147  My  Wonderful  Wife!  Marie  Corelli 

148  A  Change  of  Air.  Anthony  Hope. 

149  The  Dynamiters.  Robert  Louis 

Stevenson. 

150  Pole  on  Whist. 

151  The  Dolly  Dialogues.  Anthony 

Hope. 

I  page  of  Cover.) 

# 


- s - — - - - - - - - - 

Mnnro’s  Library  of  Popular  Novels. 


LATEST  ISSUES. 


152  The  Rock  or  the  Rye.  T.  C.  De 

Leon. 

153  Auld  Lieht  Idylls.  James  M.  Barrie 

154  A  Window  in  Thrums.  James  M. 

Barrie. 

155  When  a  Man’s  Single.  James  M. 

Barrie. 

156  The  Peril  of  Oliver  Sargent.  Ed¬ 

gar  Janes  Bliss. 

157  My  Lady  Nicotine.  James  M.  Bar¬ 

rie. 

158  Better  Dead.  James  M.  Barrie. 

159  The  Story  of  an  African  Farm 

Ralph  Iron  (Olive  Schreiner). 

160  Dreams.  Ralph  Iron  (Olive  Schrei¬ 

ner). 

161  Kidnapped.  Robert  Louis  Steven¬ 

son. 

162  The  Strange  Case  of  Doctor  Jekyll 

and  Mr.  Hyde.  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson. 

163  The  Mystery  of  Cloomber.  A. 

Conan  Doyle. 

164  Love  Letters  of  a  Worldly  Woman. 

Mrs.  W.  K.  Clifford. 

165  The  Pavilion  on  the  Links.  Rob- 

ert  Louis  Stevenson. 

166  Addie’s  Husband.  The  author  of 

“  Love  and  Lands.” 

167  The  Captain  of  the  “Pole-Star.” 

A.  Conan  Doyle. 

168  The  Picture  of  Dorian  Gray.  Os¬ 

car  Wilde. 

169  L’Abbe  Constantin.  Ludovic  Hal- 

evy. 

170  Sport  Royal.  Anthony  Hope. 

171  Poems  by  Oscar  Wilde. 

172  Dream  Life.  By  Ik.  Marvel. 

173  Tales  of  Mean  Streets.  Arthur 

Morrison. 

174  The  Dark  House.  G.  Manville 

Fenn. 


175  The  Rabbi's  Spell.  Stuart  C.  Cum- 
•  berland. 

176  Lord  Lisle’s  Daughter.  Charlotte 

M  Braeme. 

177  The  Master  of  the  Mine.  Robert 

Buchanan. 

178  King  Solomon’s  Mines.  H.  Rider 

Haggard. 

179  Jet:  Her  Face  or  Her  Fortune? 

Mrs.  Annie  Edwards. 

180  Matt :  A  Tale  of  a  Caravan.  Rob¬ 

ert  Buchanan. 

181  Sippho.  Alphonse  Daudet. 

182  The  Tinted  Venus.  F.  Anstey. 

183  A  Man  of  Mark.  Anthony  Hope. 

184  The  Secret  of  Goresthorpe  Grange. 

A.  Conan  Doyle. 

184  A  Case  of  Identity.  A.  Conan 

Doyle. 

185  My  Friend  the  Murderer.  A.  Co¬ 

nan  Doyle. 

186  Diary  of  a  Pilgrimage.  Jerome 

K.  Jerome. 

187  Madame  Sans  Gene.  Edmond  Le- 

pelletier. 

188  The  Mystery  of  Sasassa  Valley. 

A.  Conan  Doyle. 

189  The  Silver  Hatchet.  A.  Conan 

Doyle. 

190  Mine  Own  People.  Rudyard  Kip¬ 

ling. 

191  The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd. 

Rudyard  Kipling. 

192  Maivva’s  Revenge.  H.  Rider  Hag¬ 

gard. 

193  Mr.  Meeson’s  Will.  H.  Rider  Hag¬ 

gard. 

194  The  Sunreon  of  Gaster  Fell.  A. 

Conan  Doyle. 

195  Beside  the  Bonnie  Brier  Bush. 

Ian  Maclaren. 

196  The  Bottle  Imp.  Robert  Louis 

Stevenson. 


These  works  are  for  sale  by  all  newsdealers,  or  will  be  sent  by  mail  on 
receipt  of  10  cents  per  copv.  or  any  three  copies  for  25  cents.  Address 

GEORGE  MTJNRO’S  SONS,  Munro’s  Publishing  House, 

(P.  O.  Box  2781.)  17  to  27  Vandewater  Street,  New  York. 


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